Descent into Darkness
by Anthony Devon
Summary: Sequel to Sins of the Father ... His family murdered, his mentor gone, and by his own hand, she has forgotten him. As Hermione seeks Horcruxes with Harry and Ron across the countryside, Killian seeks vengeance in the shadows. But is their bond so easily broken? The next chapter in Hermione and Killian's story will be written in blood. The hunt is on ...
1. Chapter 1 - The Reluctant Slytherin I

_As with every story, there is more than one point of view. To begin this next chapter in the story of Hermione and Killian, we will take a step back, reliving events that have already occurred, and others that were not referenced, through the eyes of Killian. Please bear with me during these first few chapters, as I know flashbacks can often be a bit of a proverbial drag. But I promise they are important, else I would not have included them._

 _But I digress ... Enjoy ... hopefully ..._

 _\- Chapter One -_

 _The Reluctant Slytherin - Part I_

" _Slytherin_!" the Sorting Hat announced in its coarse and raspy voice.

The table filled with students draped in silver and green erupted with applause. Contrary to the jubilation on display within his new House, Killian's heart dove into the pit of his stomach.

 _Don't think anything_.

He remembered his sister's warnings about the Sorting Hat's ability to read minds, as well as it relishing in spilling private thoughts before the entire student body. It was difficult, but the young first year buried his thoughts. Either that, or the Sorting Hat was taking pity on the crushed soul who made his way to his assigned House table.

 _Not Slytherin_ , Killian finally allowed himself to think as the Sorting Hat was placed on the anxious head of another first year.

Ravenclaw … It was supposed to be _Ravenclaw_. Ignoring the warm welcome he received from his new housemates, Killian sat down at the table, staring across at his sister, a seventh year Ravenclaw, who returned a sympathetic smile. His sister was a Ravenclaw, his father was a Ravenclaw, his mother, grandparents, generations of Finns … All Ravenclaw. What would his father say? He did not dare imagine the disappointment.

Killian had been awaiting the Sorting Ceremony with such eagerness and anticipation. Now, those feelings were gone, replaced by the cold sensations of emptiness and isolation. He barely heard the boisterous cheers echoing throughout the Great Hall. He did not share in the excitement of the students as they discovered what House they would call home for the next seven years. All he could hear was _Slytherin_ repeating over and over in his head. In that fraction of a moment, his life changed forever.

. . .

Several weeks passed, and Killian found himself in self-inflicted exile from the other students. He had no desire to associate with the Slytherins, and Slytherins, as a whole, had little association with anyone outside their House. The only company he kept was with his sister, who, being a seventh year, had far better things to do than to loll about with her little brother. Still, she made efforts when she could. Killian could not expect much more than that.

After classes ended one Friday afternoon in the early fall, Killian made his way to Professor Dumbledore's office. He did not know where else to go. Dumbledore was the Headmaster at Hogwarts, and being so, seemed to be the logical choice. After all, if students could not go to their Headmaster, where could they go?

For the better part of a half-hour Killian poured his misery out upon the silver-haired sorcerer. During this time, Dumbledore made no attempt to interrupt, simply allowing the frustrated boy to vent. Even in his current state, Killian felt a sense of comfort in Dumbledore's presence. There was something within the old wizard's mannerisms that put a person at ease. He could not put it into words, but it was clearly far different than being in the presence of his father.

After Killian's tongue had run dry, and almost as if on cue, a knock resonated from the office door. A moment later, Professor Snape entered, his customary scowl firmly in place, his hands crossed in front. The Potions master's eyes met Killian's for a brief moment before redirecting towards Dumbledore.

"You sent for me, Headmaster?" he asked.

Killian looked at Dumbledore quizzically. He had not noticed Dumbledore move from his decorative chair since he entered the office. Then again, Professor Dumbledore no doubt had many rather indistinguishable manners in which to convey messages.

"Ah, Professor Snape," Dumbledore greeted as he stood and crossed the room. "I believe you are familiar with Mr. Finn, one of your students."

"Yes," Snape answered, his tone short and to the point.

"Yes indeed." Dumbledore smiled, glancing at Killian, who had grown a bit fearful since Snape's arrival. "Well, it appears that Mr. Finn is a having a bit of a dilemma of sorts."

"How so?" Snape asked, as short and to the point as before.

"The boy seems to be troubled by his House assignment," Dumbledore explained. "He feels isolated and out of place, believing all Slytherins to be … How was it?" he asked contemplatively. "Ah, yes … _Mindless gits_ , I believe."

Killian's blood ran cold as Professor Snape's dilated pupils glared at him from across the office. The young student wished for nothing more than to find a dark corner to in which to disappear.

"Whatever truths may lie in his assumptions aside," Dumbledore went on as Snape redirected his glare upon the flighty headmaster, "I thought it best that you were involved in the conversation, being a Slytherin yourself, as well as the current Head of House."

"And what, exactly, would you request of me?" Snape asked drolly.

"Insight, perhaps," Dumbledore offered. "You've, no doubt, had an opportunity to observe Mr. Finn over the past few weeks. What is your opinion of the boy?"

Professor Dumbledore glanced back at Killian again with a comforting smile. It afforded the boy little assurance, however. Killian felt as if he were some form of captive animal, being observed and analyzed through a wall of glass. He actually longed for such a separation at the moment. A wall of glass would at least act as some form of barrier between himself and Professor Snape.

"He appears to be much like his sister," Snape rattled off, his face withdrawn and expressionless. "Acute skills and promising potential. He has _ambition_ , though he refuses to accept it. He also possesses a desire for _perfection_ , a desire currently clouded by his childish wants for _security_ and _familiarity_."

"Disregarding the _childish wants_ , as you say," Dumbledore dismissed with a nod, "it sounds as though Mr. Finn has the tools necessary to develop into quite a young wizard, Slytherin or otherwise, no?"

"Clearly," Snape answered, returning to his pointed tone. "If he remains _focused_."

"But I'm not a Slytherin!" Killian cried out before he could stop himself. "I can't be! We've always been Ravenclaws! Ever since we came here! I _have_ to be a Ravenclaw!"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore suggested in a soothing tenor, "you were meant to carve your own path."

Killian did not respond. He heard Professor Dumbledore's words, but could not absorb them. His passions were flowing uncontrolled, clouding his thoughts and distracting his reason.

"Now, it is entirely possible, with Professor Snape's permission, of course, for you to be dismissed from the Slytherin House and placed where you believe you belong," Dumbledore explained as he walked over to Killian, now hunched down in his chair with his head down and eyes up. "However, it is _my_ belief that you were placed in the Slytherin House for a reason. The Sorting Hat was created by the four founding members of this fine institution, and they were very wise indeed. You may not see it now, but I believe that one day you may understand why you were sorted as you were. The decision, however, remains up to you," he added with a tone of finality. "Do you stay and challenge your boundaries, or do you step back and reside within your area of comfort?"

Killian's head was swimming. It was so much to process. Professor Snape was right. He _did_ have ambition; he _did_ desire for perfection. But he also desired to belong. He felt so alone at Hogwarts. It was not terribly different than his life at home. Identical, in fact, might have been a better description. However, Killian was hoping that when he attended school he would be able to escape the forlorn feeling of solitude he had grown up with in a life bridging two worlds, but never truly belonging to either.

Setting all that aside, however, Professor Dumbledore had issued a challenge. If Killian had a weakness, it was the inability to back down from such a thing. He blamed his sister for this trait, as he had clearly learned it from her. Regardless of anything he was feeling, he could not possibly ask to be transferred. It would be a sign of weakness, and Killian would not allow himself that. He was ashamed that he had allowed himself to sink as far as he had.

"Incidentally," Dumbledore said, "and you may take this however you wish, I have known Professor Snape for many years, and I can assure you that he is neither _mindless_ nor a _git_ … Most of the time," he added with a wink as Snape sighed and rolled his eyes dismissively. "My boy, you must understand that one's path in life is dictated by their person, not their House. Would you not agree, _Severus_?"

Professor Snape narrowed his eyes. It appeared the Potions master was caught off guard by the comment. However, whatever message was hidden within Professor Dumbledore words, it was lost on Killian.

"So," Dumbledore asked with a smile. "What path do you choose?"

A knot arose in Killian's throat. He knew what he wanted to say. He could hear the words in his head. _I'm a Ravenclaw … Please let me be a Ravenclaw …_

"I'll stay," he answered in complete contraction to his desires. The challenge had been issued; he could not back down.

"Wonderful," Dumbledore celebrated with a theatric wave of his arm. "What do you say to that, Professor Snape?"

"Thrilling," Snape drawled.

"It is settled then," Dumbledore concluded abruptly. "Mr. Finn, would you mind excusing us? I should like a word with Professor Snape in private."

The question was rhetorical, of course. But, as always, Professor Dumbledore held fast to his practice of asking in place of ordering.

"Yes, Professor," Killian answered weakly as he got up from his chair and maneuvered past Professor Snape, who gave no ground to make the path more accessible. Before exiting, Killian turned back toward Dumbledore. "Thank you, Professor," he said, the slightest hint of a devilish grin curving up in the corner of his mouth.

"Pay it no mind," Dumbledore assured before dismissing Killian with a wave of his hand.

Once Killian was outside the office, the door closed with a metallic clank. Before he made his way down the spiraling stairway, however, Killian heard Dumbledore's muffled voice through the heavy wooden door.

"The boy may need a guiding hand, Severus," he said.

"Figured that out on your own, did you?" Snape retorted sarcastically. "You _are_ ever brilliant."

"Keep a watchful eye," Dumbledore went on. "We do not want to lose him."

The muffled voices faded as Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape seemed to move further from the door to continue their conversation. With nothing left to hear, Killian made his way back towards the dungeons, the first airs of confidence beginning to cultivate within him. Forget his House, _he_ would be great. He would not settle for less.

 _\- Year Two -_

"Welcome to the House," Killian greeted with a grin as he sat in a large leather couch in the Slytherin common room. "Big surprise for you, I'm sure."

"Never saw it coming," Draco assured with a sarcastic smirk. "Didn't see you at the Sorting Ceremony."

"I'm sure that shocked you as well," Killian said, adjusting his position as he reached for his copy of _Distinguishing Dark Arts_ that was sitting on the end table beside the couch. "You know I'm not one for formal engagements."

"Still," Draco went on, taking a seat on the couch across from Killian, "it would have been nice if you were there to welcome me and all."

Killian laughed. "I welcomed you when you walked in, didn't I?"

"Whatever," Draco scoffed. "I was stuck sitting with Crabbe and Goyle. Not a solid brain between the two of them," he added as he looked about the common room, taking it in for the first time.

"Still following you around like a couple of lost puppies, I take it," Killian asked as he flipped through his textbook.

"It's embarrassing really," Draco conceded. "But their parents are colleagues of my father, so I have to play nice with them. Good for grunt work though, I suppose. I guess everyone has their uses."

"Is that why you tolerate my presence?" Killian teased. "Because our fathers are _colleagues_?"

"Oh, shut up," Draco dismissed as Killian laughed to himself. "You know what I mean. My father sends his best, by the way. Missed you on the platform."

Killian closed his book and tossed it aside with a heavy sigh before throwing his arms over the back of the couch and reclining. "Yes, well, my departure was less than pleasant this year," he said drearily as he stared at the stone ceiling. "And, of course, my sister wasn't there to provide her usual cushion. Wretchedly wonderful."

"That's because your sis is already making her way in the world, as I hear," Draco taunted with another smirk. "Perhaps you should try to be less of a disappointment,"

"Perhaps you'd like to be covered in boils," Killian retorted, drawing his wand on the pallid first year.

"All right, all right!" Draco put his hands up in mock defense. "Maybe that was in bad taste. But it couldn't hurt to get involved in something. You know, little things … Associating with your housemates and such."

Killian sighed. "I don't know, Draco. These just aren't my people."

"Really?" Draco mused. "And who are _your_ people, exactly?"

Killian merely offered a halfhearted shrug and continued his analysis of the ceiling. It was a question he, himself, had pondered at length. He knew he did not fit in where he currently resided, nor did he fit in from where he came. In truth, he did not know exactly where he would, or if it were even possible anywhere at all. He had grown accustomed to his lone wolf persona. There were times when he wished for the company of others, but they were few and fleeting. Oddly enough, he knew that this conversation would probably be the only one he would have for the remainder of the day.

"Well, good thing I'm here then," Draco offered. "At least you'll have one person to talk to."

"How wonderful for me," Killian mocked.

"Whatever," Draco dismissed. "So, Potter was on the train. Did you hear?" he added, changing the subject, to which Killian offered no objection.

"I did," Killian answered. "Did you see him?"

"Yeah," Draco said nonchalantly as he grabbed Killian's textbook and flipped it open.

"And?" Killian pressed.

"Not very impressive," Draco said with a shrug. "Bit of a git, if you ask me."

"Well, that's disappointing," Killian said with a hint of sarcasm. "You know, being the _Boy Who Lived_ and all ... I would have expected a certain amount of flair."

"Boy Who Lived, my ass" Draco huffed. "Bloody whelp."

 _\- Year Four -_

Killian sat by himself under the stairway leading to Professor Trelawney's Astrology class, reading through his _Advanced Potions_ text in quiet solitude. This had become a ritual for the fourth year Slytherin. Much to the frustration of his parents—his father, in particular—he had still not assimilated into his House, nor the school for that matter. He did excel in his studies, so his professors were well aware of the reclusive teen. However, if Killian were to fall off the face of the earth, it was unlikely that any student in the school would pay any notice. That is, of course, with the exception of Draco, with whom Killian shared his only bond.

For Killian, it was something he never gave a second thought. He enjoyed his privacy. Admittedly, it was difficult at first, but he came to accept it. In time, he began to realize that he actually possessed many of the characteristics that would define a great Slytherin, a point Draco had made on several occasions over the previous two years. Perhaps that was why Killian distanced himself. If he did not associate with anyone, he would not have to face the realization that he was very much like them. He saw no reason to face such a truth at the moment. Solitude within Hogwarts was perfectly fine.

On this particular afternoon, Killian's solitude would be interrupted by an extraordinarily strange occurrence. As he sat under the stairs with his head in his text, he thought he caught the image of a young girl swinging under the stairs, her robes whirling with the motion. When he looked up, however, he saw that he was perfectly alone.

 _That was odd_ , he thought as his eyes glanced about the area.

True, it was out of the corner of his eye and the light was not exactly radiant in his current location, but Killian swore he had seen her. She had long brown hair, a bit wavy, very full. She hurried under the stairs, carrying an armload of oversized texts, and looked around as if to see if anyone had noticed her. She was there, he was sure of it.

 _That's it, my mind is finally gone_ , he thought, referring to how his sister continuously teased him that his reclusive manners would drive him to madness. Her whimsical prophecy appeared to be coming to fruition.

Just as Killian was ready to brush the event off and return to his text, he saw her again. This time he was sure. She appeared out of thin air, only a few feet from where he had seen her previously. Apparition within the school? Impossible. But there she was.

Killian remained silent, hugging the shadows in the corner. It was clear that whomever this girl was, she did not wish to be seen. For some reason he felt compelled to go along with her wishes. Instead, he simply stared at the young girl, mesmerized for reasons he could not quite wrap his mind around. In a matter of only a few seconds, she appeared satisfied that the area was clear and left the underside of the stairs in the same whirl by which she initially entered. Just like that, she was gone.

Gathering his things, Killian quickly followed. As he exited, he saw the girl rushing up the spiraling staircase towards the Astrology classroom. He stood there for a moment, daring himself to pursue, but knowing full well he would not. Instead, he turned towards several Hufflepuffs who made their way into the hall and towards the stairs.

"Excuse me," he asked of one of the girls, who, upon seeing his Slytherin robes, retreated a step as if he had some form of ghastly disease. "Please," Killian went on, his manners catching the girl off guard.

"What do you want?" she asked, her defenses a bit weaker, but still in place.

"Who is that?" Killian asked, gesturing up the stairs towards the fleeing girl with an armful of literature.

All of the Hufflepuffs glanced upwards.

"Hermione," the girl answered after a moment's thought. "Hermione Granger."

"She's a third year," another girl added. "Gryffindor House."

"Hermione Granger," Killian said to himself as he watched Hermione disappear into the class at the top of the stairs.

"Bit of a bookworm, she is," a Hufflepuff boy offered. "Pleasant enough though, I suppose."

"Thank you," Killian said with a bow of his head.

"Why do you ask?" the first girl queried as her eyes glanced up at the stairs and then back at Killian.

"No reason at all," Killian lied. "Just curious."

The girl smiled warmly. "You're a bit off for a Slytherin."

Killian grinned. "I thank you for that as well."

With that, Killian and the Hufflepuffs parted ways. As Killian made his way back to the dungeons, the image of the young Gryffindor appearing out of nothingness played back in his mind over and over again.

"Hermione Granger," he said aloud to himself, before laughing it off and heading to Potions.

 _\- Year Five -_

"You're leaving already?" Draco asked as Killian discreetly made his way towards the exit of the Great Hall.

The Yule Ball had just gotten under way less than an hour previous. The Great Hall had been decorated in streamers, balloons, candles, ribbons, and other such frivolities. All of the students of Hogwarts were mingling with students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, dancing, laughing, and generally enjoying themselves. Altogether it was a wonderful night. Wonderful for all who wished to attend, that is.

"I'm tired," Killian offered as a reasonable excuse.

"You're a liar," Draco accused with a laugh. "Snape is going be fuming if he finds out you've left. He wants us all to make a showing."

"I've made a showing," Killian pointed out. "Even dressed for the occasion," he added as he straightened his dark dress robes with mocked vanity.

"You haven't even been out on the floor yet," Draco countered.

"Snape never mentioned anything about dancing," Killian said.

"It was _implied_ ,"" Draco went on. "You know, you'd have done better if you'd actually brought a date. How pathetic is that? … Showing up alone?"

Killian cocked his head and smirked. "Well, thank you, Draco. I feel so much more festive now."

"Oh, come off it," Draco dismissed. "Just grab a girl. I'm sure there's got to be someone in here that you'd fancy for a moment. It wouldn't kill you, you know."

Killian looked to the dance floor. His eyes instantly caught sight of Hermione as she whirled about with Viktor Krum, clearly taking every delight in the moment. His eyes stayed longer than they should, but Draco did not seem to notice.

"Sorry," Killian apologized with a sigh as he feigned a glance about the hall. "It appears that all of the best options have already been spoken for."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked quizzically.

Killian grinned. "It means that I'm leaving. And what about your date? She's probably looking for you."

"Don't get me started," Draco groaned with a roll of his eyes. "She's driving me crazy. Hasn't stopped since we got here."

"Think of how well you'll sleep tonight," Killian teased.

"I can't believe you're just going to leave me here," Draco whined.

"You still have Crabbe and Goyle," Killian said, patting Draco on the shoulder. "I'm sure they'd love to tag along after you."

"Oh, please," Draco groaned. "I'd rather waltz with Professor Sprout."

Killian laughed. "I hear she dances a wonderful waltz. You'll do fine," he added sympathetically. "I'll see you back in the common room."

Without another word, Killian made his way through the throng of students and out of the Great Hall as Draco disappeared back into the crowd bounding about on the dance floor. As he left, he took one last glance back at the festivities where he saw Hermione and Krum leaving the dance floor and heading towards the tables where Harry and Ron sat with their dates, staring off with disinterest. Clearly, they were enjoying the Yule Ball as well as Killian.

He watched for a moment longer as Krum left to gather some punch while Hermione, Harry, and Ron engaged in conversation. A tinge of jealousy arose within him, but he dismissed it immediately. Turning away, he headed off to wander the halls, the sounds of laughter and music fading off in the distance behind him.

. . .

Hours later, Killian was sitting under the stairs in a quiet corner of the castle, practicing levitation without the use of his wand or verbal commands. He managed to move a stack of his textbooks several feet before losing control and having the books tumble to the stone floor with an echoing thud.

In truth, he was merely trying to distract his mind. The Yule Ball was bothering him more than he let on. It was actually quite out of character for him to be unsettled by such things. But this was different. For some reason, the Yule Ball made Killian feel especially alone. Perhaps it was seeing all of the students engaged with one another. Perhaps it was the smiles of carefree enjoyment that he saw etched on their faces. Or perhaps it was something more.

Ever since Killian had witnessed Hermione's appearance under the stairs the previous year, she had become something of a constant recurrence. Nothing of weight, just simply noticeable. He would see her in the halls as they made their separate ways through the school, find her lost amongst the dusty tomes in the library when he was trying to escape the company of others, or become painfully aware of the enjoyment she shared in the embrace of Durmstrang's champion.

Why did this bother him? It did not bother him. It could not _possibly_ bother him. He did not care. She was interesting, nothing more. Killian, as he had several times over the previous year, dismissed it as such. After all, she was merely a student. Killian had neither the time nor desire for anything so trivial.

"Dammit!" he cursed under his breath as another attempt to levitate his books fell short of his expectations.

He was distracted. For all he tried, he could not clear his mind. Why had he gone to the dance? How bad could the consequences possibly have been if he had simply disobeyed Professor Snape's orders? If nothing else, he surely would have been in a better state of mind than the one in which he found himself currently.

Sometimes, however, things happen for a reason. Sometimes, even when it seems that everything is going wrong, it is really just fate's way of putting things in order. Killian had never believed in fate. But as he sat there, embracing the darkness, simultaneously enjoying and loathing his solitude, his disbelief would be challenged.

"Fraternizing with the enemy," came a frustrated voice from the top of the stairs.

Curious as to whom had invaded his area of seclusion, Killian grabbed his books and peered out from under the stairs, glancing up to find the source. It was then that he saw her. Hermione Granger. No longer dressed in her eloquent ball gown, she was now in simple casual attire. Even so, the mere vision of her captivated Killian beyond his control as she glanced about, clearly unsure as to where she was.

 _You have got to be kidding me_ , Killian thought as he stared at Hermione, a devilish grin emerging.

. . .

After a private dance that was cut regretfully short by the intrusion of Professor Snape, Killian made his way back to the Slytherin common room, his adrenaline still pumping, a sensation pulsing through his body that he had never experienced in all his years. He could still sense the touch of her skin, the scent of her perfume. How the night had turned.

Killian had spent better part of four years isolating himself from everyone around him, and now all he could think about was when he could see her again, his mysterious little Gryffindor.

A Gryffindor … Of all things, a Gryffindor.

He sat down on the long leather couch, staring at the ceiling. Everyone else had been long asleep by that time, so the common room was completely deserted. It was so quiet, in fact, that it was impossible not to notice when Professor Snape entered, stern and cold.

"Mr. Finn," he requested. "A word, if you please."

"Professor," Killian apologized as he got up from the couch. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have been out … I should have been at the Ball … I was there for a bit, but …" he babbled on, trying to organize his thoughts.

"Yes," Snape interrupted. "I am aware that you fulfilled your obligations regarding the Yule Ball by definition, if not in spirit. However, I wish to discuss this evening's events regarding Miss Granger. How long have you two been … _engaging_ with one another?"

It took a moment for Killian to translate Snape's meaning. Normally, Killian was rather good at interpreting Snape's cryptic innuendos, but presently, his mind was a bit unfocused.

"Not long," Killian answered finally, unsure exactly how to explain. "I mean, not at all. Just tonight actually. By accident, really. We were just dancing."

"Not enough dancing at the Ball?" Snape queried, his eyes narrowing.

"She was upset," Killian answered.

"Really?" Snape drolled.

"I mean, she _seemed_ upset," Killian clarified. "I thought it a pity that her night should end in such a manner."

"How noble of you," Snape remarked, rich with sarcasm. "Your father would be very proud."

"I rather doubt that," Killian dismissed.

The sternly ominous Potions master's eyes almost seemed to soften slightly at Killian's remark, but his expression remained cold and constant.

"Be that as it may," he warned. "You should be made aware that Miss Granger has a tendency to keep questionable company."

"You mean Potter?" Killian laughed. "You must be joking. He's just a—"

"Oftentimes people are judged by the company they keep," Snape interrupted, "rather than the content of their character. You would be best to realize that now, before you find yourself interwoven with dubious concourse."

It seemed such an odd comment in reference to Hermione's friendship with Harry Potter? Professor Snape often spoke to Killian in riddles and hidden meanings. And while Killian was certain this was one of those situations, whatever was being insinuated was completely lost on him. As before, however, Killian was euphorically distracted. Attempting to sift through any sort of cryptic quandary would be futile.

"Furthermore," Snape went on, "I do not wish for Miss Granger to be interfering with your studies."

"I'm your best student, Professor," Killian reassured. "I have no intention of relinquishing that honor."

"Excellent," Snape said as the faintest shadow of a smile very nearly broke through the corner of his mouth before reverting back into his customary scowl. "Then I have nothing further for you. It is after hours. Off to bed."

"Good night, Professor," Killian said.

Snape returned a curt nod before turning about and heading out the Slytherin House.

It would be several more hours before Killian finally drifted off to sleep. As he lay awake in his bed, he wondered if Hermione, too, might also be awake, going over the night's events in her head. He laughed at the idea, sure the night meant far more to him than it did to her. Although he hoped against hope that he was wrong.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Reluctant Slytherin II

_Chapter two is up and ready. I apologize for the length. I had thought perhaps I should split it into two chapters, but I really want the flashback to be done within the first three chapters of this story. The whole "trilogy" thing, I guess. I really hope the editing isn't too ghastly. I wrote most of this in the very early morning hours and my eyes are playing some pretty wild tricks on me. I think it's like 2am now that I'm posting it. Have you ever stared at something you've written and suddenly the words seem less like words and more like little miniatures of scenes from within the story you're writing? I really need to get some sleep._

 _At any rate, here are some events of Killian's sixth year (Hermione's fifth year, for those who are keeping track) ..._

 _I would also like to wish a belated Happy Birthday to a fellow dreamer out there. Enjoy ..._

 _\- Chapter Two -_

 _The Reluctant Slytherin - Part II_

 _\- Year Six -_

Stars flashed in his eyes, a tinny taste rising in his mouth, the salt of his own blood on his tongue. He expected retaliation for the altercation in the courtyard, but had not anticipated it in the common room and certainly not by way of fist.

The punch caught Killian off guard and there was little he could do to fight the swimming sensation in his head as he felt two sets of hands grab him by the arms, pulling him upright.

"On your feet, Finn," Pucey spat as Killian's vision blurred in and out of focus. "Time to pay the piper!"

With that, Pucey buried his fist in Killian's gut, causing him to double over with so much force that he fell free from the restraining arms of Montague and Nott. Gasping for breath, Killian could hear a growing volume of murmurs all around him, assuming other members of the House were beginning to fill the common room with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

"Grab his wand!" Pucey ordered as Baddock retrieved Killian's wand from where it fell after Pucey's blindside attack. " _Mobilicorpus_!" Pucey commanded.

Killian was pulled several inches off the floor and, with a wave, was flung into the stone wall with explosive impact, his body slumping to the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" Draco shouted at Pucey, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Stay out of this, Malfoy!" Pucey dismissed as he directed his wand on Killian once again. Before he could cast his strike, however, Draco knocked Pucey's wand away, his jinx bouncing harmlessly of the common room wall.

"Knock it off!" Draco warned in as firm a tone as he could muster.

"I'm warning you, Malfoy," Pucey barked.

"You can't threaten me!" Draco scoffed. "My father—"

"Piss on your father, whelp!" Pucey sneered as he blasted Draco across the room.

By that time, Killian had struggled to his feet, albeit with great difficulty. He saw Crabbe and Goyle rush to Draco, who lay limp in the corner. Then, as if a switch had turned within his very soul, he felt no pain, he felt no fear … He felt nothing but anger.

Killian's eyes focused, fire burning in his glare as he saw Pucey, laughing at his handiwork. His muscles began to tense, a devilish grin creeping across his face.

"Bit of a masochist, are you?" Pucey chortled with a sneer as he noticed Killian standing along the wall, defiant and defenseless. "Not to worry, I've got plenty more for you. Then, maybe we'll have a bit of fun with that little Mudblood of yours."

Something in Killian snapped as Pucey's words hit his ears. His anger turned to rage, pure and uncontrolled. As Pucey cast his jinx, he made his move.

" _Accio wand_!" Killian's wand leapt from Baddock's hand and into his own. He deflected Pucey's jinx and spun around on Nott. " _Furnunculus_!"

Nott flew back, his face becoming engorged in grotesque lumps, puss, and boils.

"What?" Pucey bumbled in confusion. "Impossible … How?"

But there were no answers to be found. As Pucey looked on in bewilderment, Montague and Baddock engaged in a viscous duel with Killian. It was not long before Baddock was removed from action, being repeatedly propelled face first into the granite mantle of the Slytherin hearth.

Three other students joined the duel in an attempt to subdue Killian, who was attacking with no regard for his own safety nor the safety of others around him. It was only seconds before those students were disposed of, wishing they had remained simple bystanders. By this point, however, Pucey regained control of his senses and joined Montague, the only one who seemed capable of parrying with Killian. In an effort to help, however, Pucey hit Montague square in the chest with an errant jinx. Seeing his opportunity, Killian acted swiftly.

" _Incarcerous_!"

Ropes appeared from the air, binding Montague. With a violent wave of his wand, Killian blasted the hulking seventh-year through the entrance to Slytherin House, leaving a sizable hole in the dark dungeon corridor wall.

Killian then turned his attention back towards Pucey, who was now retreating, his wand lowered in submission. No longer in control of his actions, Killian ignored the surrender. He was not sure what he cast, his emotions overwhelming his consciousness. All he saw was Pucey being lifted from the ground, blasted into the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and finally against the hearth, where Baddock's body lay motionless.

Now barely conscious, Pucey began grasping at his throat, choking, as Killian's curse stole the air from his lungs. He gasped and pleaded, but it fell upon deaf ears.

"Killian, stop!" Draco cried, regaining consciousness just in time to see Killian standing over the near lifeless body of Pucey.

Leaping to his feet, Draco threw himself at Killian, pulling him back and momentarily breaking the curse. Pucey heaved and buckled over at the first opportunity for air. Killian, seemingly unaware of Draco, fought free and went to reapply his curse as Draco desperately tried to restrain him.

" _Expelliarmus_!" came Snape's enraged voice from the gaping hole in the dungeon wall.

Killian's wand flew from his hand as he and Draco crashed into the floor. Killian suddenly became very aware of what had happened, of what he had done. He looked at Draco, who stared back with an expression of concern that was completely foreign on the face of a Malfoy.

. . .

Draco did his best to explain to Snape how Pucey, Montague, Baddock, and Nott had attacked Killian. The rest of the Slytherins' accounts essentially mirrored Draco's. Killian, however, remained silent, contemplating his fate. Acting in defense or not, no student would be justified in the actions he had taken.

After the interrogation, Killian found himself sitting alone in Professor Snape's office, awaiting, he could only assume, Professor Dumbledore's notification of his expulsion from Hogwarts. For years, Killian could not have cared less about such a fate. But that was before his encounter with his curious Gryffindor. Now, the thought of being without her ravaged his soul.

When Professor Snape returned, however, the silver-haired headmaster did not accompany him. Instead, the formal and familiar figure of Lucius Malfoy entered alongside Snape and Draco. Confused but relieved, Killian allowed a slight smile to wash over his face.

"Ah, Killian," Lucius greeted as he removed his gloves and folded them in his hand over the top of his serpentine cane. "It appears that you have had quite an eventful evening."

Draco smiled reassuringly at Killian. "Don't worry, it's all been handled."

"Handled?" Killian asked, grasping for reasoning. "I don't understand."

"When Draco sent word of your predicament," Lucius explained, "I, of course, got here as soon as I could. Seven on one? Very impressive."

"Seven on two, sir," Killian corrected, offering Draco credit, although technically he had not so much as drawn his wand. Still, it was clear that Draco appreciated being included.

"How delightfully modest of you," Lucius dismissed. "When I arrived, Professor Snape and I had a long discussion regarding what, exactly, would be the best approach in handling such a delicate situation. It is difficult to make such things disappear entirely. However, errant rumors of bickering within Slytherin House would clearly be less than advantageous to all involved. Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"

"Obviously," Snape drawled, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

"So," Lucius went on, "we have come to the conclusion that the best way to remedy said circumstances is to have all students who witnessed the event sworn to secrecy by virtue of an Unbreakable Oath. Not as unforgiving as an Unbreakable Vow, of course, but painful enough consequences that one would not wish it upon themselves."

"Sir," Killian said, still at a loss for words. "I don't know what to say."

"Of course, because rumors can spread so rapidly within the school," Lucius explained further, "every member of the Slytherin House will also been sworn to secrecy on all events leading up to the attack in the common room, including the altercation in the courtyard this morning. Any and all attempts at retaliation against you or any others involved in tonight's misunderstandings will also be forbidden. Have I covered everything?" Lucius asked, turning to Snape in a mock request for guidance.

"You failed to pin a medal on him," Snape replied curtly.

"You're quite right," Lucius agreed with a pretentious smile. "Perhaps another time. Now, if you will please excuse me, I will just have a word with Professor Snape in private," he concluded to Killian as he and Snape headed off to a corner of the office and spoke in undertones.

With the adults busy, Killian was left to sit in shock at how the circumstances had turned around. He thought he had spent his last day at Hogwarts, and now it looked like everything was being efficiently and entirely brushed under the rug. He almost felt guilty, but not guilty enough to actually care.

"Told you everything would be fine," Draco said as he sat aside Killian and nudged him in the ribs. "See? No one can say anything about it unless they want their tongue to swell up to the size of a grapefruit. They can't even talk about what happened this morning. So you and your little Gryffindor can go about and do your thing … Whatever that is."

"Yes," Killian mused. "Whatever that is."

"It really sickens me, you know," Draco went on. "I mean, seriously? Hermione Granger? She's such an annoying little bookworm. She's like …"

"She's like perfection," Killian concluded, much to the contrary of Draco's point. "You just don't see it."

"Clearly," Draco conceded. "Whatever, though. It's your thing."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Killian agreed as he shook his head with a sigh, still trying to make sense of it all. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" Draco asked.

"For trying to help me earlier," Killian said with as much sincerity as he could assemble. "For helping me now. I just … Well, just thanks, I guess."

"You didn't really think I would let you hang yourself, did you? If you got expelled, who would I talk to? Crabbe and Goyle?" Draco asked with another nudge to Killian's ribs, which were particularly sore at the moment. "Couple of rogue scholars there."

Professor Snape and Lucius came back towards Draco and Killian, finished with whatever last minute touches that needed to be discussed regarding the cover-up. Glancing around the office, Lucius adjusted his coat and checked his timepiece.

"Well, it appears as though things are in order here," he said, placing his timepiece in his coat pocket. "I shall inform your father you are doing well."

"Thank you, sir," Killian said humbly as he stood, bowing his head.

"No thanks are necessary. We do what we must," Lucius assured with a smile much warmer than the pompously proper one he presented earlier. "Draco … Walk me out, won't you?"

Draco and Lucius left Snape's office, leaving Killian alone with Professor Snape, awkwardly avoiding the Head of Slytherin House's glare. For several moments, there was nothing but silence until Snape finally approached Killian, observing the student who had just escaped expulsion.

"I will be sending word to your father, of course," he said, his eyes burning down upon Killian.

"Yes, Professor," Killian conceded, gritting his teeth, his eyes on the floor.

"You realize that you got off rather unscathed, do you not?" Snape asked rhetorically.

"Yes," Killian answered just the same.

"This is something that will not be discussed in the future," Snape went on.

"Yes, Professor," Killian nodded.

"However, before we lock these events into the recesses of our memories," Snape continued further, "you will answer me one question."

"Of course," Killian agreed.

"Tonight," Snape said, his eyes narrowing, "I witnessed you performing, with reckless control, extraordinarily dark magic. I would very much like to know where you learned it."

. . .

 _William?_ Killian thought as he crossed the courtyard towards Hogwarts. _Well, who's Peter then?_

As Killian rattled his mind, realizing that he really should try to get to know the names of everyone in his House, he failed to notice that there was another individual pacing the grounds in the vicinity.

"Ahem," came Professor Umbridge's sickeningly sweet voice.

Killian turned quickly and saw Umbridge emerge from the shadows. He was cautious to conceal his surprise, knowing that it would be quite disastrous if Umbridge were to discover that Hermione was still lurking about the courtyard.

"Mr. Finn," Umbridge addressed as she approached Killian with her plastic smile firmly in place. "Out a bit late this evening, aren't we?"

"Yes," Killian agreed as his mind raced for a plausible lie. "I was …" He bumbled slightly as he, once again, struggled to remember the first year's name. "William," he finally recalled. "William was feeling a bit off, so I escorted him outside to get some fresh air."

"Is that right?" Umbridge asked. "And where is William now?"

"The air failed to improve his condition," Killian explained, "so I sent him off to Madame Pomfrey."

"You sent him off alone?" Umbridge inquired further.

"I thought I saw someone down by the lake," Killian went on. "I wanted to be certain there weren't any students wandering about."

"How very responsible of you," Umbridge complimented, although Killian was not entirely sure of her sincerity. "And what did you discover?"

"Nothing," Killian answered simply. "The late night shadows must have been playing tricks on my eyes. I was actually on my way to Madame Pomfrey to ensure that William made it safely."

Umbridge gave a casual glance about the courtyard before returning her attention to Killian. Try as he may to predict what the vindictive watchdog of the Ministry was thinking, Killian found it a fruitless endeavor. Her perpetually warm expression, while not exactly Slytherin in its concealment of thoughts and mindset, was equally difficult to read.

"You are quite noble," she said at last.

"Thank you, Professor," Killian returned with a bow of his head.

"It is actually rather fortuitous that I came across you this evening," Umbridge went on. "I am looking to put together an organization of students who, like yourself, seem both interested and capable of maintaining order within the school. I believe you would make a fine addition."

"I appreciate the offer," Killian said with a smile. "But, with regret, I must decline. I've never been one for organizations ... Students or otherwise."

"I'm disappointed that you feel this way," Umbridge lamented with a sigh. "Still, I think we should discuss this further. I would like you to report to my office tomorrow after classes have concluded."

"Um … certainly," Killian agreed, slightly uncomfortable. "I will be there."

"Excellent," Umbridge beamed. "Now, back inside with you."

. . .

Umbridge smiled as Killian entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts master's office. "How good of you to come."

Killian did not respond. He was under the impression he had been instructed to be there, not that it was an invitation. However, Professor Umbridge had a tendency for niceties, even when they were merely for show.

"I was hoping that after some thought, you may have reconsidered my offer," Umbridge went on pleasantly.

"I am truly flattered by your invitation," Killian lied. "But I'm not certain that I fit into the mold."

"I disagree," Umbridge said. "It appears that you have a reputation for handling situations quite well."

Killian thought this interpretation of the rumors bounding around the school to be a bit odd. He imagined the consensus was that whatever had happened in the Slytherin House, it was handled anything but well.

"Are you certain you won't reconsider?" Umbridge asked again.

"Quite certain," Killian answered. "With respect, of course."

"Pity," Umbridge dismissed with a sigh as she twiddled a tea cozy. "Well, since you're here," she went on, "you may as well serve your detention."

"Detention?" Killian asked, surprised at the statement.

""While your intentions were noble," Umbridge explained, "you were out after hours."

"Are you serious?" Killian asked.

"I am always serious," Umbridge answered, the sickening sweetness in her tone replaced with a stern stiffness. "I think that some lines are in order. Have a seat."

Killian looked about the cat décor in the office as saw a writing desk near the wall. Sitting down, he saw a blank parchment that had been laid out.

"You will be needing this," Umbridge continued, handing Killian a quill with no ink.

 _A Blood Quill?_ Killian thought as he took the barbaric writing tool.

Killian was familiar with the device. His father had one on display in the family library until his mother finally insisted it be removed. Even if only for viewing, it was more than his mother could stomach to look upon such a device. Although Killian had never seen it in practice, he understood its purpose quite well.

"What shall I write?" he asked, forcing a believable grin to hide his anger and anxiety.

Umbridge seemed taken aback by Killian's approach to his detention. Pacing the floor in front of the writing desk, she simply observed him for a moment, clearly contemplating as they eyes locked in a match of wills.

"The Inquisitorial Squad is an honor and a privilege," she instructed sweetly.

"Inquisitorial Squad?" Killian asked curiously.

"The organization you will be joining," Professor Umbridge explained.

"Professor, I—"

"While it is not quite ready for implementation," Umbridge went on, cutting Killian off before he could protest, "I am certain when it is, you will make a fine and productive member."

"Regretfully, I do not share in you certainty," Killian said with as much politeness as he could muster given the circumstances.

"We shall see," Umbridge sang. "Begin …"

Killian simply smiled, glanced at the parchment, grasped the Blood Quill, and began to write.

"Very well."

He immediately felt the sting on the back of his hand as the blood-red letters of his lines etched themselves into his skin. Repressing any show of pain or emotion, he wrote endlessly, without pause as Professor Umbridge hovered over him, watching his every move as he scribed line after line.

After nearly an hour, the fiery burn on the back of Killian's hand gave way to numbness. Seeing that the effects were not meeting their ends, Umbridge instructed him to stop.

"Have we learned our lesson?" she asked as Killian placed the quill down upon the desk.

"I'm not entirely certain what lesson was being presented," Killian answered simply.

Professor Umbridge's smile dissolved away as Killian stood and adjusted his robes.

"Well," she said as her eyes narrowed upon Killian, "then I'm afraid you shall have to return tomorrow, and we will continue."

"Of course, Professor," Killian agreed with hint of defiance masked within his proper politeness.

The second day was as the first. As were the third and the fourth. Each time, the words carved deeper and deeper into Killian's flesh. Each time he began to accept, to embrace, to enjoy the pain as it surged through him. Each time, Umbridge asked the question. Each time, Killian refused. He would not relinquish his will to Umbridge. He would not serve her.

. . .

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'm sure you can ask me a great many things," Killian answered playfully.

He then felt Hermione's head lay upon his shoulder, heard her sigh as she contemplated her next thought. A sudden tinge of guilt arose within him, believing perhaps his teasing may have been out of place at the moment.

"Is this just an illusion?"

 _No_ , Killian thought. _Never believe that … Never, ever believe that …_

But the words did not reach his lips. He wanted, more than anything in the world, to answer in the manner his heart desired, but knew it was far more complicated than that.

In his entire life, Killian had felt alone. Never feeling as though he belonged in the world from where he came, nor truly belonging in the world he now resided within, Killian had grown accustomed to loneliness. He had accepted it, very nearly enjoyed it. Now, it was different. He longed for the company of his _little Gryffindor_ , and felt as though a part of himself was missing when she was not around.

How he longed to tell her how he felt, how he longed to tell her everything. But he knew he could not. He had to keep a distance. His father's words, the words he had engrained in both his mind as well as the mind of his sister, echoed through his consciousness …

 _Remember your place … We are one of the twenty-eight. And as such, we have a responsibility …_

Responsibility or not, he could deny how he felt. Just the sensation of her head on his shoulder made him feel like a different person, a better person, a person she deserved. Wanting for nothing more than for the moment to go on forever, he rested his head upon hers, interlacing their fingers as they sat together in their own secluded area away from the crowds of Hogsmeade.

"I don't know about any rabbits in a hat," he said at last, "but you are far more than any vanishing woman behind a curtain."

It was not what he wanted to say, but it seemed to be enough. He felt Hermione's grip tighten as she slid closer to him, ignoring the sting on the back of his hand. No pain could wash away the euphoria that had overtaken his senses. He was happy, he was at peace, he was home.

Sadly, as with all moments, this one came to pass. It was not long before they had to leave, their worlds becoming separate once again.

Immediately upon arriving at Hogwarts, Killian was greeted by Professor Umbridge, whom seemed almost too pleased to see him, approaching with her now customary delicate clearing of her throat.

"It appears you had a wonderful time in Hogsmeade, Mr. Finn," she said sweetly.

"Very much so, yes," Killian answered, aware of the smile he could not hide.

"Yes, indeed," Umbridge said. "Shirt untucked, coat askew … It also appears you have paid little attention the rules."

"What?" Killian asked, puzzled by the remark.

Looking down, he saw that his shirt had, in fact, come a slight bit untucked. When he exited the coach coming up from Hogsmeade, his shirt and coat had snagged the handle. He paid it little mind at the time, but could not disagree with Professor Umbridge's observation, however nitpicky it may have been.

"Right," he conceded, tucking in the corner of his shirt and straitening his coat.

"Appearances are very important, would you not agree?" Professor Umbridge continued.

"Of course," Killian agreed, wishing for nothing more than to be free of bitter old woman's company. "I will be sure to pay closer attention in the future."

"I believe you will," Umbridge said. "However, to be certain beyond doubt, I think it might be best you come to my office after class on Monday. Might I see your hand?"

"Wait, what?" Killian choked. "Detention? For my shirt?"

"Your hand, Mr. Finn," Umbridge reiterated.

Tempting defiance, but fearing just how far the repercussions might reach, Killian relented, removing his glove and presenting his hand.

"Turn it over," she instructed further.

Killian turned his hand, displaying the scars left by the Blood Quill; faded, but still present.

"It has healed rather nicely," Umbridge remarked, leaning in for a closer look. "Have you given any thought to my proposal?"

"None," Killian answered coldly.

It had been several weeks since he last sat in that office, scribing Umbridge's mantra. Killian had thought, perhaps, she had given up on the prospect of recruiting him for her potential band of brutes. Clearly, she was merely allowing him the opportunity to believe so.

"Well," Umbridge said with a sickening sweet smile, "then I shall see you Monday after class."

With that, Professor Umbridge turned abruptly and entered the castle, leaving Killian to stand in the cold, festering in his frustration.

. . .

"Only delayed?" Killian asked with disappointment.

"You imagined I would overrule Professor Umbridge's disciplinary actions?" Snape queried as they walked along through the halls of Hogwarts.

"Would you like my honest answer?" Killian asked dejectedly.

"I would like Slytherin House to cease any further evaporation of points," Snape quipped.

Killian fell silent, uncertain of how to respond. The sickening feeling of being a disappointment, usually reserved for the presence of his father, washed over him, his shoulders slouching, his eyes falling to the floor.

"Professor, I …" he began and then stopped. "You don't understand. She's trying to—"

"I am aware of Professor Umbridge's intentions," Snape asserted.

"Then you must understand—"

"What I understand is that you have been singled out as an asset," Snape interjected sternly. "And as such I do not envy your position. However, it is your position and my expectation is that you choose a path that does not adversely affect those around you."

Turning the corner, Killian saw a group of his housemates commiserating in the hall ahead of them.

"I cannot concede to her proposition, Professor," Killian said, weaker than he intended. "I just … I can't."

"Nor, in spirit, would I condone such an act of cowardice," Snape said cryptically. "Now," he went, abruptly changing the subject, "your detention begins in thirty minutes. I expect you will be prompt and prepared."

"Of course, Professor," Killian acknowledged as Snape left him with his peers and continued on down the hall.

Killian loitered for a moment, pondering if he would go to the library or simply return to his common room until he was to meet with Professor Umbridge. Deciding on the latter, he turned to walk off when Pansy Parkinson stepped in his path wearing an oddly friendly smile for a classmate he had scarcely shared a handful of words in their years together at Hogwarts.

"Hi Killian," she said sweetly, placing her hand on his chest and fumbling with his tie.

"Hello Pansy," Killian returned cautiously.

"Where are you off to?" Pansy asked, he fingers cascading down Killian's chest. "Detention again?"

"Not just yet," Killian answered with equal caution. "It appears it has been delayed."

"Delayed?" Pansy asked, her smile so uncharacteristically admiring, it actually made Killian uncomfortable. "How fortunate. Would you like some company?"

"In detention?" Killian asked, quizzically.

"No, silly," Pansy answered with a giggle, slapping Killian on the chest, and grasping his tie once again. "Before your detention. You seem lonely and stressed," she punctuated, pursing her lips and glancing over Killian's shoulder.

For whatever reason, the last comment brought out a giggle from Daphne Greengrass, who was standing the other conversing Slytherins a few feet away.

"While I appreciate the offer," Killian said, grasping Pansy's hand and removing it from his person, "I assure you I am quite fine."

"Suit yourself," Pansy said, putting her hands behind her back and twirling away towards her housemates.

Both confused, yet relieved that Pansy no longer had her hands all over him, Killian left the group and swiftly made his way down the hall in the same direction Professor Snape has gone. He did not even care that it led neither to the library nor the Slytherin House. All he cared was to free himself of the present company.

Paying little attention to his path, he then collided with another student stepping out from a darkened alcove. Grasping the student before she stumbled to the floor, Killian heart leapt.

"Hermione?"

. . .

That evening, Killian's detention began far later than thirty minutes behind schedule. Whatever meeting had occurred in Professor Dumbledore's office, it must have gone well for Umbridge. By her mannerisms alone, in the very least, least it appeared to have gone well.

Although seemingly frazzled when she first arrived at her office, where Killian had been waiting by the door for longer than he would have liked, her demeanor soon calmed and was replaced by a genuine smile of satisfaction and conquest as she sat at her desk quietly watching as Killian scribed his lines.

Hours later, Killian finished the last line he could squeeze onto his current piece of parchment, the pain in his hand having long since transcended to numbness. Placing the Blood Quill on the desk, he looked over to Umbridge, who had moved from her desk and was now sitting in a cushioned chair in the corner of the room rhythmically tapping her fingers on the oaken arm and she sipped her tea.

"I will need more parchment if you'd like me to continue," he said.

Before Umbridge could reply, there was a knock at the door. The Ministry puppet's already overly pleasant manner beamed further as she placed her tea on the side table and crossed the room. When she opened the door, she was greeted by Mr. Filtch.

"Mr. Finn has arrived," the caretaker informed. "Brought 'im here, like you asked. Castle's in a bit of a state. Hard to get 'im in quiet like."

"Excellent work," Umbridge in a sweet, yet dismissive tone.

She then turned her attention towards a tall, older gentleman dressed in a long leather overcoat, carrying an ebony shillelagh topped with a raven's talon clutching a silver orb carved with intricate symbols and designs. "How wonderful to meet you."

"Father?" Killian choked as the gentleman entered the room.

"Killian," his father returned with marked disapproval. "Professor Umbridge has informed me that, with all that is happening, you are adding acid to the wound."

"Happening?" Killian asked. "What do you mean?"

"Times are changin' boy," Mr. Filch said with a toothy and malicious grin.

"That will be enough, Argus," Professor Umbridge asserted, closing the door with a wave of her hand, the crash of wood against stone echoing in the office.

"What is he talking about?" Killian demanded. "What's happened?"

"I believe it might suit you best to hold your tongue at the moment," Killian's father quipped in a stern and commanding tone.

Killian's arrogance melted away in an instant. "I … I'm," he stuttered, feeling like a mere child amongst elders.

"Will you excuse us?" Professor Umbridge asked of Killian. "I would like to speak with your father in private for a moment.

"Wait in the hall," Killian's father instructed.

After a moment's pause, Killian obliged. He really had no other option. Leaving Umbridge's office and the classroom beyond, he sat on the stone bench in the hall with a thousand thoughts swirling through his head. His father. She had sent word to his father. No defiance, no arrogance, no will could counteract that. He had lost.

As Killian wallowed and ponder his fate, thoughts of Hermione passed through his mind. He had not had much time to spend with her over the last several days. She had been busy preparing for her OWLs, and he ... well, of late Umbridge had, once again, been monopolizing his time. He knew that Hermione certainly would have made time for him had she known what Professor Umbridge was putting him through. However, he found it unnecessary to worry her. He had it under control. Or so he thought.

His head in his hands, staring at the floor, Killian caught the scent of Hermione's perfume on his hands. It had only been a few hours since they were sitting in the corridor together. Another chance encounter. No dance ensued on this occasion, however. Instead, Hermione managed to turn her ankle as they, quite literally, bumped into each other.

Concerned for her condition, he had helped her to a bench along the wall where he examined her leg thoroughly; first over her stocking, then sliding it down and feeling her soft skin beneath his fingers. Though finding her injury to be minor, he cautiously continued to pay her every attention, expecting at any moment for Hermione to object. But she offered no resistance, seemingly embracing the moment, exploring her own boundaries as much as he explored his. The moment could not have been more perfect.

And now, her sweet aroma, ghosts of an experience forever locked within his memories, offered him the only fragment of comfort he could hope for in the lonely desolate corridor outside the classroom for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"Hey, Finn," came George's voice as two lanky Gryffindors appeared from the shadows of the hall. "You look pleasant."

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "For a punch in the gut, that is. What are you lurking about here for?"

"It appears I'm to be recruited," Killian answered regretfully.

"Recruited? Fred asked.

"Professor Umbridge is looking to put together an organization of students," Killian explained.

"Organization of students?" Fred asked.

"Organized for what?" George asked on.

"Organized for her," Killian answered simply.

"Tell me you're not going to be one of her little gits," Fred pled.

"Not by choice, I can assure you," Killian said, hanging his head and staring at the cold stone floor.

"Sorry, mate," Fred comforted with a hand on Killian's shoulder. "I don't envy your position."

"Pay it no mind," Killian dismissed. "What are you two doing out here?"

"Doing a bit of scouting about," Fred explained.

"The old toad has put a vise on our entrepreneurship," George added.

"Now we're forced to run our business in the underground sense," Fred went on.

"When we can find said underground areas in which to operate, that is," George clarified.

A moment of silence passed between the three students. Killian remained dejected, Hermione's smooth and perfect skin passing though his mind as he breathed in any and all of her essence that still remained upon him. Fred and George, on the other hand, seemed much more contemplative. Too contemplative. The sort of contemplative that usually preceded an ingeniously rebellious solution to a simplistic, yet bothersome, predicament.

"You know," Fred surmised as he rubbed his chin, "it's a shame we don't have someone around to provide some form of cover."

"A terrible shame," George agreed. "Someone like that would make things much easier."

"And it would be such a stick to 'ole Umbridge, don't you think?" Fred asked.

"Absolutely," George assured.

While Killian had been listening to the Weasleys as they prattled on, he had only scarcely been paying attention. They were just voices spouting words in the background of a world that was falling to pieces around him. Then however, as if a proverbial bell went off in his head, those pieces, those shattered remains of dreams and desires, suddenly fell back into place. Suddenly it all made sense. Suddenly there was a purpose once again.

Everything happens for a reason. Everything.

"Anyways," Fred said, patting Killian on the back. "Sorry about your situation."

"Sure you'll make the best of it, though," George added as the twins continued along and disappeared into the darkness.

A moment later, the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom opened.

"Are you ready?" Umbridge asked as she peeked her head through the doorway.

"Of course, Professor," Killian answered with a grin as he stood and dusted his robes. "I am at your service."

. . .

It was a cool, clear evening as Killian stood watch by the stairs leading to the boathouse off the Black Lake as students made their way to the secret Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes location. So far, it had gone off without a hitch. The students would cross the barrier and, essentially, disappear from view, invisible to all senses. It was absolutely genius.

"You're Finn, aren't you?" Harry said as he approached Killian by the stairs.

Turning, Killian was surprised to see Harry Potter. He had heard much about the _Boy Who Lived_ over the years, but this marked the first time he had ever had the opportunity to be in his presence in a personal sense.

"Killian Finn," Killian clarified, more for show than anything else. "And you're Harry Potter. Now that introductions are out of the way, I suppose you'll be wanting to know the access point."

"Yeah, in a bit," Harry said. "I would actually like to talk to you, if you have a minute."

"Certainly," Killian said, raising an eyebrow. "As long as it doesn't interfere with my duties as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad," he added with a wink.

Harry laughed. "How is it, exactly, that you're on the Inquisitorial Squad?"

"Under protest," Killian answered with a grin as he displayed _The Inquisitorial Squad is an honor and a privilege_ carved and scarred into his flesh.

"She got you too, eh?" Harry grinned back, revealing his _I must not tell lies_ reminder.

"Oh, yes. She's quite a pleasant one," Killian said with a roll of his eyes. "Although, I'm certain that's not what you came down here to talk about," he added with a tilt of his head.

"No," Harry admitted. "It's actually … It's about Hermione."

"Hermione?" Killian asked, trying as best as he could to sound unknowing.

"Look," Harry said, clearly not fooled by Killian's weak attempt to cover, "I don't know what is or isn't going on with you two. I mean, I'm not stupid. I have an idea and all. I've seen the way she glances over at you from time to time. She's not as discreet as she'd like to think. Not if anyone is paying attention, that is. But that's not exactly what I wanted to talk about, either. I actually …" Harry paused, organizing his thoughts for a moment. "I came down here to thank you."

"Thank me?" Killian asked, this time genuinely unknowing. "For what?

"For earlier this year," Harry explained.

"Earlier this year?" Killian echoed, now unknowing and suddenly uncomfortable.

"Everyone knows about the confrontation that took place in the courtyard," Harry explained further. "You know, the one that no one was allowed to talk about, so everyone was talking about it. Maybe not about the specific details, everyone seems to be a bit fuzzy on that. Even so, I've been able to put a few things together."

"Such as …?" Killian asked.

"Such as I know Hermione was there," Harry answered. "And I know she wasn't alone. Someone came along and stood with her. Then, with whatever happened in the dungeons that night ... It's not much of a leap to believe to two events are connected. I just couldn't believe a Slytherin …" He cut himself off. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Unfortunately, yes," Killian conceded.

"But you're not like a Slytherin at all, are you?" Harry said.

"I don't know," Killian admitted. "I suppose it depends on who you ask."

"Humilities aside, Hermione is a good friend of mine," Harry said sincerely, "and you helped her when no one else was there. It makes you different in my book."

"Fred and George came along as well," Killian pointed out.

"Yeah, I had that figured as well," Harry said. "But I suspect you weren't planning on that. It could have turned out very wrong, but it didn't. And I know you had something to do with it. May not mean much to some people, but it does to me."

"I don't know what to say," Killian said honestly.

"Yeah …" Harry smiled uncomfortably. "Well, just promise me you won't hurt her. Otherwise, I'll have to … Well, you know."

"Kill me?" Killian offered.

"Right," Harry agreed with a laugh. "Something like that."

"Well, Harry Potter," Killian said with a theatrical bow of his head, "I promise you that if I ever hurt Hermione, my life is yours to take. You have my word."

Harry nodded. There was an understanding between them. For the moment, that was all it would be. An understanding. It was about Hermione, and two people who cared very much for her for far different reasons.

"Speaking of," Killian said as he noticed Hermione, with Thomas bounding in front of her, leading the way.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry greeted warmly.

. . .

"They were down on the boat dock, weren't they?" Draco asked as he sat across from Killian in the Slytherin common room, engaged in a game of Wizard's Chess.

"They were," Killian answered, pondering his next move as Thomas danced back and forth between the chairs aside the chessboard.

"I was this close, wasn't I?" Draco went on, indicating a fraction of space with his thumb and forefinger.

"You were," Killian confirmed, taking Draco's knight in grandiose fashion.

"And what were you planning to do if I went down there?" Draco pressed on, smirking.

"I was going to blast you clear off into the Black Lake." Killian grinned. "So it's a rather good thing you didn't."

"Is that right?" Draco laughed. "And how were you planning to explain that to Professor Umbridge?"

"Hadn't thought that far ahead actually," Killian replied honestly. "I suppose I would have sent her into the lake after you."

Draco shook his head dismissively and moved his rook, which Killian promptly took with an explosion of violence on the board.

"You know you could have told me," Draco offered as he studied his pieces. "I could have avoided the boat docks altogether. Umbridge was just looking for someone to make an example of. I'm sure I could have found someone elsewhere."

"Always out to please, aren't you," Killian teased.

"I'm serious," Draco insisted. "I personally think you're an idiot for getting involved with those Weasley gits, but, whatever. All you had to do was tell me where they were going to be. I would have covered you."

"You would have covered for the Weasleys?" Killian asked doubtfully.

"I said I would have covered for you," Draco corrected before losing his pawn to Killian's bishop. "I didn't let on about Hermione, did I? You don't think I could have said something?"

"I know you could have," Killian agreed. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. It's a rather awkward situation I find myself in. I'm more or less making it up as I go."

"No arguments there," Draco said with a devilish grin. "One hundred points from Gryffindor, though? That was grand. I thought Hermione was going to jinx you right there on the spot."

Killian laughed. "I'm still waiting for it."

"You also could have warned me about the trading cards," Draco pointed out with a sneer.

"I figured you would be intelligent enough not to read something that could potentially be jinxed," Killian said, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't read them."

"I'm thinking you might have had a bit of inside information on that," Draco asserted.

"Maybe," Killian agreed with a smile. "Just a little."

As Killian scanned the chessboard, analyzing his next move, Thomas leapt up into Draco's lap. Scrunching his nose, Draco picked up the twitchy ferret and poked at it.

"How is it that you got to have a ferret, anyway?" Draco asked as Thomas curled up into a ball and nestled in to sleep. "Owls, frogs, rats, and cats. That's all the handbook allows for. You're the only one with a ferret."

"That is because," Killian began, "in life, as in chess, I am astoundingly incredible. Checkmate," he punctuated as he took Draco's king.

"What?" Draco asked, exasperated as he glanced over the board. "Bloody hell."

. . .

"I have to see her!" Killian shouted at his Potions professor, completely ignoring the lack of respect in his tone.

"Absolutely not!" Snape forbade. "She was part of a group that broke into the Ministry. There are several Death Eaters currently sitting in Azkaban on account of the events that took place there, including Lucius Malfoy. People died tonight! If your father discovers you were commiserating with the aforementioned students, he will remove you from this school!"

"I don't bloody care what he does!" Killian went on, his emotions controlling his words far more than any logical thought processes.

"Do not be a fool!" Snape grabbed Killian by the shirt collar and pinned him against the stone wall of his office, glaring with a sternness that surpassed even Snape's customary unpleasantness. "How, exactly, will your removal from Hogwarts remedy the current situation? Think, Mr. Finn! Rash actions are for the moronic and the weak! I hold you to a higher level!"

"Please, Professor," Killian pleaded. "I have to know she's all right! I can't think! I can't breathe! I need to see her!"

Snape relinquished his grip on Killian as Killian's eyes immediately turned to the floor. Snape straightened his robes and took a deep breath, possibly to clear his own head.

"You will return to your House," he ordered. "Draco will need you, I am certain. I will inquire on the condition of Miss Granger."

"Professor?" Killian asked, puzzled as he looked up at Snape, who was doing his best to keep his face expressionless and clear of emotion.

"Now," Snape directed with a wave of his arm.

Without another word, Killian obeyed his mentor. In all truth, Snape was right. Killian's father would pull him out of Hogwarts, and he would never see Hermione again. However, knowing that she was lying there in the hospital wing, uncertain of the extent of her injuries, and his last words to her having been spoke in anger … It was destroying him.

It would be several days before Hermione was released. Through it all, Snape was true to his word, checking in on Hermione regularly and informing Killian on her condition. Once Killian heard his Gryffindor was out of the hospital, however, he hold back no longer.

Late after nightfall, three days before the end of the term, and standing outside her window in the pouring rain, Killian sent a waterlogged paper hummingbird to summon the girl that had agonized his thoughts and emotions for days on end. When they met that night in the courtyard, Killian decided that there would be no more games. She was everything that made him be. He cared for nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Reluctant Slytherin III

_****Note**** Apologies to anyone who read this chapter already. I posted it prematurely and had to remove it. These flashbacks are written as several snippets that I then paste together. After I posted this initially, I realized not only had I posted two parts out of order, I completely forgot to post the section when Professor Dumbledore are Killian are having a short conversation. Have I mentioned how much I miss my editor?_

 _**Take Two**_

 _Wow! It took a long time to get this next post completed. My new work schedule has put a damper on my free time over the last few weeks. Hopefully this will not continue._

 _Alas, this marks the completion of the flashback trilogy to start off this part of Hermione and Killian's ongoing story. It catches us up to the present, with the next chapter then moving us forward. There is really nothing more to say, I guess._

 _A belated Happy Birthday to a fellow dreamer out there and thank you to those who have left reviews/comments. Enjoy ..._

 _\- Chapter Three -_

 _The Reluctant Slytherin - Part III_

 _\- Year Seven -_

Killian and Hermione sat on her front stoop and watched as the sun set over the horizon. Hermione's head lay on Killian's shoulder as he fiddled with her ring, her _mark_ upon him. He wished the moment would go on forever. In his short, reclusive life, he had never felt so at peace.

"I have to go," he said reluctantly and he rested his head against hers.

"Are you _sure_ this time?" Hermione asked with a teasing smile.

He had made the same declaration several times over the last hour, each time failing to leave Hermione's side. Although, Hermione had not exactly made any of the attempts an easy endeavor.

"Regretfully yes," Killian answered. "Not for want or desire, I promise you."

"I know," Hermione said as she straightened up and stood from the stoop.

Killian joined her, holding her hands in his. He stared into her eyes, the afternoon's events playing back in his mind. Just the two of them, away from prying eyes and judgment … It was perfect. Soon, the school year would begin, and they would be reduced to dodging in and out of shadows once again. The only solace Killian found was in the knowledge that it would only be one more year.

Hermione leaned in and Killian embraced her, kissing her softly on her forehead, her cheek, her lips. A moment later, he Disapparated.

When he returned home, Corbin Yaxley was bidding farewell to Killian's parents. Killian, who was in good spirits and wished to hold onto the emotion for a while, attempted to sneak into the manor without being seen. Unfortunately, Yaxley caught a glimpse of the young Slytherin as he climbed the curved marble steps leading inside.

"Ah, Killian," he called out, warm and welcoming. "We were just speaking of you."

Killian sighed and attempted to bury his disgust as he approached Yaxley and his parents. His mother was in full dress, his father wearing his long leather overcoat and carrying his ebony shillelagh. They had obviously come from a formal engagement.

"You have grown since I last saw you," Yaxley observed. "Your father tells me you've have become quite a young wizard."

"My father exaggerates, I'm sure," Killian said with forced modesty. Proper manners and politeness was always something he had been able to feign at a moment's notice, regardless of the company held. Very Slytherin.

"Humility, as well," Yaxley beamed. "Excellent quality for those who aspire in life. I believe your father was right about you. You will do quite well, indeed."

"He will not disappoint," Killian's father assured as Killian glanced at him, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"I am certain of it," Yaxley agreed. "Alas, I must be off. I have another appointment I mustn't miss."

"Of course," Killian's father acknowledged with a nod.

"Thank you for your company," Killian's mother offered.

"It was my pleasure, entirely," Yaxley said with a proper bow before redirecting towards Killian's father. "I will be in touch."

With that, Yaxley Disapparated. Killian's father turned his attention to Killian, who was glaring and gritting his teeth.

"Absolutely not," Killian declared.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning," his father said.

"Whatever it is you have discussed with that _vermin_ ," Killian clarified with no attempt to hide his disgust, "I will have no part of it."

"Mind your tongue!" his father warned.

The familiar uncomfortable expression washed over Killian's mother. She had witnessed these conversations before and grew to dislike them more and more as time went on.

"You have been given a great opportunity and you _will_ oblige!" his father continued.

Killian stood firm. "I will _not_!"

"Killian," his mother offered in a comforting tone. "Draco has been charged with a task, as well. It is a great honor."

" _Draco_?" Killian came back, his anger now swelling. "Have you people all lost your nerve? You have to employ the services of students now? How could anyone allow for that?"

"How, indeed," his father agreed. "As one might also ask how it is that you could allow for Draco to carry the burden on his own."

"I would do anything for Draco," Killian countered. "But I refuse to work for _him_. That twisted sorcerer is _your_ savior, not _mine_!"

Killian turned and headed off to the garden, ignoring his father's calls for him to return. He felt like running. He felt like shouting at the sky. He felt like destroying something as a violent tempest of rage and anger pulsed through him.

He needed to get away and find somewhere to vent these emotions before they overtook him completely. He wanted to return to Hermione. She would almost certainly be awake. But he could not let her see him like in his current state. No, he would have to work this one out on his own.

. . .

After receiving several posts addressed to him with instructions they be forwarded to Draco, Killian realized he would bend to his father's wishes whether he wanted to or not. Initially, he took his anger out on Draco, snapping on him after receiving the first several letters. Almost immediately, however, he regretted it. He could see in Draco's eyes that he was not particularly enthusiastic with his own involvement. But what was Draco to do? His father was in Azkaban, his family in bed with the Dark Lord. He had little recourse.

Killian knew there was only one place that he could turn to seek counsel. Only one person with whom he knew that he could be open and honest without fear of judgment or reproach. He sent the letter as soon as he could put pen to paper and received her reply within a day. Promptness was always one of her stronger points.

 _Dear Killian,_

 _I am sorry to hear of your current dilemma. I wish I could say that it was surprising news, but I had overheard of Yaxley's interests in employing Draco through an individual whom still remains within the circles I once frequented. I had hoped that intelligent minds would prevail and realize the madness in their plans, but obviously this hope has gone unanswered. I imagine each must find their way on their own in the end._

 _Are you still seeing Hermione? You have always spoken so highly of her. She appears to have a wonderful effect on you. Even so, I am certain things are becoming rather complicated. Does she know? You did not say. I assume this is something you are keeping from her. It is your decision, of course, but I must warn you that faith and trust are difficult to gain and easily lost. But will not bore you with another lecture. Back to your real concerns._

 _I am quite certain by this time you are already aware you are going to continue to receive orders whether you agree to them or not. As much as it pains me to say it, things will only get worse if you continue to defy them. Once you have been chosen, there is little choice left but to oblige, in action if not in spirit. Draco, unfortunately, finds himself in the same situation, and I fear that if left to his own devices, he may not have the constitution to make it through this. He needs you, Killian. There is so much at stake for him._

 _As for you, you must go along with what is asked of you. Of course, that does not mean that you have to keep it to yourself. Perhaps there is someone you can speak to, someone you trust, someone at Hogwarts who can help. However, you would have to maintain an outward appearance of submission or else the consequences would be mortal. There is no mercy allowed for treason._

 _I hope this has given you some form of guidance. I wish there was more I could offer, but I am currently in a delicate state. Yes, you have read correctly, you are going to be an uncle. I had wanted to share this news with you in person, but things being as they are, the opportunity to see you will not present itself for quite some time. Keep your head up. I have faith that, in time, this will pass, and things will be as they should. When that time comes, I expect you and Father will have made amends with each other. He loves you, though he would never say it. His words may be misguided and ill prepared at times, but he truly does want the best for you. And aside from all of that, one day your nephew will need guidance and support, and I would hope when that time comes, you will be around to offer all you can._

 _With love always,_

 _Your sister_

Killian read and reread the letter. She was right. He had little recourse. He was bound by his father's promise to Yaxley and the others. And Draco. He had already seen it in his eyes. Draco was alone.

At that moment, Killian realized what a horrible friend he had been. He had been selfish and uncaring, unable to see beyond himself and his own desires. Faced with this, he now knew he had to do something. Unfortunately, he had no resources he could call upon and no plan to speak of. He did, however, know someone who might; someone he trusted beyond anyone.

Making his way down the dark corridor, Killian arrived at his destination and knocked soundly. A moment later, the door opened and he stepped inside.

"Professor?" he called into the dimly lit room.

"Mr. Finn," Snape drawled coldly as he peered at Killian from across his desk. "It is after hours, as I am sure you are already aware."

"I need to speak with you," Killian explained.

Snape narrowed his eyes, evaluating Killian with his icy uninviting glare. After a moment he sat forward in his chair, folding his hands on his pitted oaken desk.

"Have a seat," he said as the office door swung closed.

. . .

"Killian?" Killian's mother gasped as her son unexpectedly entered the parlor. "This is a surprise. We thought you were to be staying at Hogwarts over holiday. "Come," she went on, patting the cushion on the sofa aside her," take off your coat and sit."

"I won't be here long," Killian asserted with a fiery glare towards his father, whom sat in his chair by the hearth sipping brandy from a clear crystal snifter. He did not appear as taken aback with his son's presence as his mother. Either that, or he simply had no interest in addressing him.

"I don't understand," his mother said, still beaming from Killian's arrival. "Is something the matter?"

The juxtaposition of his parents could not have been more evident. It pained Killian to see his mother's joy. In moments, her smile would fade and there was nothing Killian could or would do to prevent it. It was over. He had reached his limit. It had to end.

"I wish to speak with Father," Killian said, his eyes fixed and focused.

As foreseen, the blissful cheer drained from his mother's eyes, the felicity in her lips and cheeks falling away and being replaced with a subtle sadness.

"Killian …" he voice softened and cracking. "What's happened? Are you all right?"

"Liam and Aeris were at Hogwarts," Killian answered never breaking his contact with his father, who remained dismissively disinterested, staring into the dancing flames and crackling embers of the fire.

"At Hogwarts?" his mother nearly choked, her hand to her mouth as her eyes fell accusingly upon her husband. "What in the world would they be doing there?"

"Their job, I imagine," Killian's father answered.

"Do not play dismissive with me," Killian said accusingly. "You have no right—"

"You will mind your tongue!" his father shouted in return. "If Liam and Aeris were at Hogwarts, one might wonder what it was you and that girl were discussing."

"Her name is Hermione!" Killian's emotions were boiling over, the air around him like fire in his lungs.

Now standing and tossing his glass of brandy into the fire, Killian's father straightened up. "I shall assume you received my letter," he asked, dismissing the current subject for another as if the former held no weight of any importance.

"If you believe there is any way I'm going to—" Killian started off indignantly before he was cut immediately short by his father's overwhelming presence.

"I believe you will do exactly as instructed," his father stated as a firm matter of fact. "There are far worse things than Watchers, as I am certain you are very well aware. I think it best you consider that moving forward," he then concluded before abruptly exiting the parlor.

His heart racing, with every ounce of his being wishing to chase after his father and demand his attention, Killian remained frozen in place. He had enter his home having gone over the conversation in his head dozens of time, each time knowing exactly what to say, exactly how to say it. Upon arrival, however, it fell out of order the moment it started. He had not so much confronted his father as much as he had been put in his place. And it was no longer a place he wished to be.

"Killian—" his mother began cautiously.

"Do not defend him," Killian snapped.

Now biting her lip in thought, his mother took a breath and adjusted her seating.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"You know very well what happened," Killian answered, desperately trying to temper his anger, but failure to do so with any amount of success. It was not his mother whom had created his current state of emotion, but she, as she had done so many times in the past, would be the one to feel its effect. "And it was not the first time. Phineas was in Hogsmeade last year. Please," he went on, raising his hand to silence his mother before she could speak up," do not dismiss it as the effects of that archaic Taboo Curse. There are thousands of people who violate its broad spectrum every day without incident. Even Mr. Lovegood had done far worse than speak a few words before he was ever deemed a potential problem."

Killian's mother stood and crossed the room towards her son, placing her hands on his cheeks, a comforting, yet sorrowful look in her eyes. Killian could not bear to gaze back, turning his eyes to the floor before closing them altogether.

"I know it's hard," she began.

"No, you don't," Killian argued weakly. "You have no idea."

"We have all gone through what you're going through," his mother said. "You are not the first."

"But you wanted it," Killian went on. "You all did. I don't. I don't want any of it; this bridging of worlds, don't belong here, don't belong there. Like a horribly belabored cliché in Muggle fiction. And I … I just … I can't …"

Killian's mother put her arms around him. Her action only pained him further as her motherly embrace offered little comfort.

"Is this really all about her?" she asked.

"You're just as bad as he is," Killian said, pulling away and creating distance. "Can't even say her name. Why bother, right? None of them really matter."

"Killian, you know how it is," his mother explained. "Associate at a distance, bond within our own. Your sister went through the same struggle for a time. You know she did. Even so, through it all, she understood."

"Understood?" Killian scoffed. "Has everyone already forgotten?"

"No one has forgotten," his mother assured. "But she found her way again."

"Yes," Killian agreed. "She found her way. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe she would never have lost it in the first place if not for all of this?" he asked with a spiteful gesture to his surroundings.

"Killian—" his mother began again, taking a step towards him as retreated further from her reach.

"No," he dismissed. "I have to go."

"You don't have to," his mother said.

"I do," Killian insisted. "There is someone I very much wish to see. And she very much wishes to see me. Which is more than I can say of anyone who dwells within these walls."

A moment later, he was gone.

. . .

"Mr. Finn, a word if I may," Professor Dumbledore called to Killian as he passed through the Long Gallery.

Although he heard his name quite clearly, Killian still hesitated, uncertain if the elder wizard was, in fact, referring to him.

"Certainly," he finally acknowledged, joining Hogwarts' headmaster, ascending the stairs together and making their way along towards the Tapestry Corridor.

"You are approaching your final moments here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore began whimsically. "You'll pardon if an old man wonders how the experience has been for you."

'How do you mean, Professor?" Killian asked.

"It was not all that long ago that a young boy climbed the stairs to my office and poured out his heart, lamenting his house placement with overwhelming doubts," Dumbledore clarified, albeit not much.

"That was a long time ago," Killian pointed out with a grin. "A lot has happened since then."

"Indeed it has," Dumbledore agreed "Have you any regrets?"

Killian laughed. "That's a rather broad question," he answered. "For anyone to say they have no regrets … Well, I would have to call them a liar."

"And you would be correct, I imagine," Dumbledore agreed once again. "No person is without regret in such a world as this," he went on musingly, his blackened hand clasped within his other behind his back.

"Forgive me, Professor," Killian said, detracting from whatever conversation Dumbledore was leading, "but your hand … I imagine that is an incredible story."

"Quite incredible," Dumbledore said. "And riveting when told properly, with certain accents and gestures slowly building towards a climactic finish."

"Is it a regret?" Killian pressed, a small knot arising in his stomach as he questioned whether or not he was inquiring too deeply.

"Do you believe any man with a withered and decaying hand would call it anything but?" Dumbledore asked simply.

"No," Killian answered, realizing how foolish the question had been. "I suppose I wouldn't."

The two entered the Tapestry Corridor and continued along. As Killian looked up, he saw Hermione at the end of the corridor, clearly in a less than pleasant state. Her hair was frazzled, her face pocked with spots of ash and soot, her lips pursed with a slight downward curse.

Even so, the unexpected sight of her made Killian's heart soar. Unfortunately, he was currently being entertained by the headmaster of the school, so all he could do was cautiously meet eyes with his Gryffindor as they continued on.

"You're probably wondering why it is I called to you," Dumbledore said, seemingly bringing the conversation back to topic.

"I know there is very little you do without purpose," Killian said in return. "I would think nothing different of this."

"You would be correct to do so," Dumbledore commended. "For some time I have been wishing to inquire about you sister. Unfortunately, my time has been disbursed among various trials and endeavors of late. As such, the simplistic joys of asking after a former student have slipped away."

"She is doing well," Killian said, attempting to keep his response short and to the point, while knowing very well it would not be left at that.

"She made quite a name for herself after her years within these walls," Dumbledore mused. "I was saddened to hear of the path she chose. Such a bright young woman."

It was the most proper and polite way Professor Dumbledore could have approached it. Killian's sister had more than simply made a name. Few would know of it, however. How little the world really knew of the things that affect it the most.

"She had poor judgement for a time," Killian said. "Nothing more."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "As have we all. However, judgment, like all else in the world is ever changing, ever evolving. Bad judgment becomes good judgment, while actions done with the noblest of intentions can unfold into consequences most dire in nature. Even when one believes they have allied themselves securely. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't know," Killian answered honestly. "I think it would depend."

"It wouldn't," Dumbledore assured. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for an appointment," he went on, abruptly ending their conversation. "Laborious work, being Headmaster. Enjoy your class."

With that, Professor Dumbledore walked off, leaving Killian dumbfounded. He paid it little attention, however, as his mind was already elsewhere. He had to get to class. Logic would tell him the shortest path lay ahead. However, he could also backtrack through Tapestry Corridor and wind his way around. And if he happened to come across Hermione along the way, it would merely be coincidence.

. . .

"You look awful," Killian observed as he handed Draco the Barrier Hinge he retrieved from Saarla Manor.

"Don't start," Draco dismissed as he took the hinge and secured it beneath his robes.

"I suppose it would be futile if I were to ask what, exactly, you plan to do with that," Killian said as they headed off towards the Great Hall.

"Yes, it would," Draco answered.

"You know I practically died acquiring it," Killian teased, trying in vain to lighten the conversation.

"Lucky for you your precious _girlfriend_ showed up," Draco snapped back drolly.

"Lucky for _you_ ," Killian corrected. "Seems that hinge is rather important."

"Right …" Draco grinned weakly. "Well, I'll be sure to send her flowers to express my deepest appreciation."

"Draco," Killian said, grabbing the pallid Slytherin by the arm, his tone suddenly serious. "Why won't you just tell me what you're doing? Let me help you."

"I can't," Draco insisted. "You don't understand. You have your own problems. You don't want to get involved with this."

"I am involved," Killian retorted.

"No, you're not," Draco assured. "Not yet. You have no idea. Just stay out of it. It will be better for everyone."

"Everyone?" Killian scoffed. "What about you? We've always been there for each other. Thick and thin. You don't have to go through this alone."

"Two different worlds, Killian," Draco said regretfully.

"Don't say that," Killian argued. "It doesn't mean a thing and you know it."

"It does," Draco argued in return. "Never really understood it before. We live the lives we're given to live, right?"

"We don't have to," Killian offered. "Please, let me—"

"It's not an option," Draco said abruptly. "I can't … I … I don't have a choice."

Draco turned and headed off, leaving Killian standing in the hall at a complete loss as he stared after him. He wanted to say something, to do something, but could muster no reaction. He was torn between loyalty and obedience, with Snape's words echoing though his head.

 _You are to inform me of everything you are instructed to do as well as all that you learn pertaining to Draco and his activities. Most importantly, you are to tell no one of any of this. That includes that incessant little Gryffindor with whom you insist on sharing company. Am I perfectly clear?_

He was clear. Clarities aside, it did little to comfort Killian. Draco trusted him and he was betraying that trust. The only way he could rationalize his actions was to convince himself that his deception was paved with good intentions. The ends justified the means, did they not? Sacrificing for the greater good. What was it Professor Dumbledore said about noble intentions and dire consequences?

It was complicated. Everything had become so damn complicated. He needed Hermione. Even for just a brief moment. Her smile. Her embrace. She could clear his head of all of this madness.

. . .

"Do you care to defend yourself?" Yaxley asked coarsely.

"I do not," Killian replied collectively, casting an impudent glance towards Tanzar, who sat brooding in the corner of Borgin and Burkes.

The shop was closed, only the weary few still parading the streets of Knockturn Alley. Tanzar had gone to Yaxley and informed of another student's presence at the Outpost Embassy in Rature. Hence, Killian was summoned by Corban Yaxley, as these were treasonous accusations and demanded explanation. Killian, however, remained calm. Lies and deceit had become his forte. Tanzar had no idea how overmatched he was.

"Are you acknowledging, then, that there was another student present with you upon your arrival in Rature?" Yaxley queried, perplexed by Killian's demeanor. "That you brought someone through?"

"I am not," Killian answered. "I merely refuse to dignify any accusations from such a petulant pariah."

"I'll crush you where you stand, boy!" Tanzar shouted as he erupted from his seat, covering the floor towards Killian. Yaxley immediately stepped between, separating the two and directing Tanzar to keep his distance.

"Tanzar claims he saw her—" Yaxley went on after he had restored order, "—with his own eyes. It is his report that she was the only reason you survived the Dementors."

"A fiction that would have been far more believable had he not insisted it was a girl whose help I'd employed," Killian explained, coolly. "Obviously an attempt to emasculate my abilities. Although, I must thank you, Corban, for the advanced warning of the Dementors. Very forthright of you."

"Yes, regrettably, that information was not available to give," Yaxley explained with a devilish grin. "It appears you came out all right though, didn't you?"

"Clearly," Killian answered with proper arrogance.

"You can't possibly believe this?" Tanzar roared. "The boy is lying! I was there! I saw her with him! He brought her through. And there were others ... Two at least! Ambushed us in the square!"

"Of course," Killian agreed with condescending sarcasm. "There is grand conspiracy out to ruin you, Tanzar. Did he tell you why, exactly, he was there in the first place?" he then asked of Yaxley, who clearly had not thought to question it. "I, for one, do not remember Tanzar and his brood being involved in this arrangement. Not as I understood the plans."

"He raises a valid point, Tanzar," Yaxley agreed. "Why _were_ you there?"

"Happened about it, is all," Tanzar answered, his tone retreating.

"Are you denying that you practically begged me to tell Corban you had helped in the retrieval of the Barrier Hinge?" Killian asked, his eyes like ice upon Tanzar. "Beseeching me. Hoping it would offer some form of redemption for you in the eyes of the Dark Lord?"

Yaxley glanced between Killian and Tanzar, whose eyes were locked with one another. Tanzar said nothing in his defense, the silent fury burning in his face saying more than words could offer. He was outwitted and cornered, having lost all credibility.

"You're dismissed," Yaxley said as he placed his hand on Killian's shoulder. "Tanzar and I have an appointment."

Rolling up his sleeve to expose his Dark Mark, Yaxley then stabbed his wand into the inked skull and serpent. Very soon, Voldemort would be on his way. The thought sickened Killian as he left Tanzar and Yaxley in Borgin and Burkes. He was coming. The only consolation was that Killian would not have to bear the abhorrence of being in the Dark Lord's presence.

. . .

"While you are working in my presence," Professor Snape instructed coldly, "I must insist you wipe that ridiculous smile from your face."

"Sorry, Professor," Killian said, doing his best to bury his smile, only to have it return in full force.

Killian had been with Snape in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for most of the evening, learning various techniques from his mentor; techniques of which other students within Hogwarts were not privy. After the scuffle in the Slytherin common room the previous year, this had become somewhat of a weekly ritual during the school year. For in that moment, Snape saw in Killian a raw talent that needed only to be disciplined and focused, a talent he could mold under his own tutelage. And Killian took full advantage the opportunity to train under a master of Professor Snape's skill and reputation.

On most occasions this year, however, it was more than simple study; it was an opportunity to exchange information and work out possible explanations for events. This night, however, there was little to speak of and, to Killian, this seemed to be promising.

Having finished for the evening, Killian and Snape made their way to the potions storeroom in the Tapestry Corridor, replacing the unused ingredients from the medicinal balms Snape had on hand for the various injuries Killian might suffer during their duels. As it turned out, little had been needed during their recently concluded session. That, as well, indicated to Killian that things were looking to take a positive turn.

"Dare I inquire," Snape asked with a grimacing sigh, "as to the source of your ludicrous merriment?"

"The school year is almost over," Killian answered.

"How brilliantly observant of you," Snape commented as he climbed the ladder to replace a vial of Riddled Ragweed.

"Nothing has happened yet," Killian went on. "It means whatever they were planning, they must have failed."

"Am I to imagine the attacks on Miss Bell and Mr. Weasley account for nothing?" Snape asked, rich with condescendence he descended the ladder, glaring down his nose at Killian, his dark pupils both piercing and imposing.

"Of course they do," Killian clarified. "But I hardly think they were purposefully targeted. It was unfortunate and regretful, yes, but clearly there is no plot against Katie and Ron."

"As true as your observations may be," Snape said, "the year is not yet over and, unless I am mistaken, you are still unaware as to the intentions of Draco's nocturnal exploits."

"He won't tell me anything," Killian explained. "He believes he's protecting me in some odd form or another. But it doesn't matter. Whatever he's doing, he can't get it to work. Of that much, I'm certain. He's as much told me so."

"You realize that the end of the term means nothing," Snape pointed out as he took several more vials and replaced them on the shelves.

"I do," Killian admitted. "But it will give me a chance to get away from all of this. At least for a little while. Maybe talk some sense in to Draco. Spend some time with—"

"Please refrain from ruining my evening," Snape interrupted as he tossed the vials to the back of the shelf, causing a cloud of dust to engulf him.

"I'm going to marry her, you know," Killian said with a coy grin, knowing how it would disgust his Professor, something he took a bit of joy in doing.

"How _wonderful_ for you," Snape dismissed with a sigh and roll of his eyes. "I think I may vomit."

"You will be invited, of course," Killian went on.

"Allow me to send my regrets in advance," Snape returned, narrowing his eyes at his gifted apprentice.

In the distance a sudden crisp and loud bang emanated throughout the area. Before the echo faded, a look of concern arose in Snape's face. He reached for the sleeve of his robes and drew it back, exposing skull and serpent on the underside of his forearm, now defined and emblazoned.

"What is it, Professor?" Killian asked, the gravity of the situation becoming immediately evident. "What's wrong?"

"Stay here," Snape instructed as he passed Killian for the door.

"Not a chance," Killian argued as he attempted to follow. "I'm going with you!"

"You will stay _here_!" Snape reiterated in a fiery tone, slamming the storeroom door and locking Killian within.

Killian went at the door, but Snape had secured it with a seal. Drawing his wand, he began to fire every unlocking charm he could summon to no effect. When that failed, he attempted a full on assault, but still found the door intact.

Outside the door, he could hear a commotion of cries and shouts mixed with the sounds of dueling jinxes. As he glanced about, he then found a solution.

Quickly, he gathered up vials of Dragon's Breath, Rungworm Fowl, and Moon Flints.

 _This should put a hole in the side of a mountain_ , he thought as he reared back and tossed the vials at the heavy oak door.

The explosion did not fail to impress as the door was completely obliterated along with a good portion of the wall.

As the smoke cleared, Killian raced down the corridor only to be interrupted when he heard Hermione calling him from behind. Seeing her image through the dissipating cloud of dust and debris was a vision that Killian would not soon forget. But there was no time for that now.

"What are you doing down here?" Killian asked, his eyes burning with fire.

"What were _you_ doing in _there_?" Hermione retorted.

"Professor Snape locked me in," Killian answered as he turned to head on.

"Professor Snape?" Hermione queried in puzzlement. "Why would he—"

"Did you see him?" Killian interrupted.

"No," Hermione admitted. "But Death Eaters are in the castle."

"I know," Killian said as he took Hermione by the hand and began to race out of the Tapestry Corridor. "Come on."

Along the way, Killian and Hermione encountered several Death Eaters who impeded their way. None of them posed even the slightest threat, with Hermione disposing of her adversaries in collective fashion and Killian cutting through his with a violent and unbending rage.

When they finally reached the hall outside the Astronomy Tower, however, Killian felt the air sucked from his lungs. He called out to his professor, his mentor, as he watched Snape drag Draco from the fray and escape with several Death Eaters, nearly being struck down himself if not or Hermione knocking him to the ground.

Now lost in confusion and disbelief, Killian gave chase, hearing Hermione's voice crying after him, but ignoring any thoughts of turning back.

Once out on the grounds, two Death Eaters advanced on him. They had stayed behind, allowing for the others to escape. They surely thought they would merely be buying time before escaping themselves. They had no indication, no possible way of knowing what manner of wizard they were about to encounter.

Killian engaged the Death Eaters with a wrath and fury worthy of the Dark Lord himself. Before they realized the mistake in their actions, the Death Eaters were nothing more than corpses lying in a heap, their unseeing eyes staring listlessly into the starry sky.

But Killian could pursue no further. As he returned to the chase, he saw Harry looking on with an anger matching his own as Snape, with Draco and the remaining Death Eaters, made it to border of Hogwarts grounds and Disapparated from sight. Killian fell to his knees, all feeling leaving his body as his mind tried to make sense of everything.

What had he done?

It was then that Killian saw a body lying on the cold damp grounds at the base of the Astronomy Tower. _Dumbledore's_ body. Dumbledore's … _dead_ … body. He had failed. They had won.

"Harry," Killian whispered as he watched the _Boy Who Lived_ , far too distant to hear his words, approach the body of Hogwarts' fallen Headmaster.

What … had … he … _done_?

. . .

She wanted to strike him. Killian could sense it. She could kill him. Even with everything that had happened between them, her emotions were so overtaken with rage and anguish that she could actually kill him. It mattered not. He wanted to die. He had failed. He thought he could make a difference and he was wrong.

Hermione leapt to her feet and turned to head back towards Hogwarts. Instinctively, Killian reached for her without looking. He grasped her by her inner thigh. The placement was accidental. He did not care.

"Please … Don't leave."

He felt weak. He felt pathetic. Then, a moment later, the broken and empty shell representing Killian's physical being felt Hermione's arms wrap around him, soothing his pain, comforting him in a way only her touch could realize.

He still could not bear to look at her. She was so much more than he deserved, so much more than he could ever hope for. He was not worthy of her embrace, but was grateful for it nonetheless.

"Killian," Hermione whispered, as she clutched the broken Slytherin in her arms.

Although his expression remained restrained, his eyes shed tears openly for the first time in as long as he could remember. Hermione held him ever tighter, as if she could somehow hold the shattered pieces in place. It was futile, but welcomed. As even now, with the world in turmoil, she was the only thing he wanted, the only thing he needed.

As they stared at the White Tomb, illuminated by the pale moonlight, these two lost souls ignored the world around them. It had fallen into madness, and the only sanity left was in their embrace. Everything else was meaningless.

. . .

"Killian, I am _begging_ you to reconsider your decision," his father pleaded, his proud and confident voice gone, now faded into one of weak desperation.

"I'm _finished_!" Killian shouted back with resentment spewing from his tongue. "I want nothing more to do with this family or anyone in it!"

That was a lie, of course. His sister was not included, but in the heat of the moment, it did not seem important enough to point out. All summer, he had been preparing to leave. With his parents away, in hiding no doubt, it was easy enough for him to settle his affairs and make arrangements. When they returned unannounced earlier that morning, however, the confrontation was inevitable.

"Please, Killian," his mother cried. "You must understand—"

"Understand?" Killian interrupted with rage. "They killed him! _Your_ people! Your _proper_ people!"

"You know we had absolutely nothing to do with it," Killian's father argued. "Our purpose here is not—"

"Do not insult me with your _lies_!" Killian cut in. "You want me to believe that you were that ridiculously obtuse? That you had no idea what their plan was? No idea Dumbledore would be their target? The only person who ever stood against the Dark Lord? Tell me that you were blinded by visions of _proper_ social standings and _political_ alliances. _That_ I would believe. But do not try to hide behind what our purpose is. It's patently clear our purpose here has long since been lost."

He had never taken such a tone with his parents before, but his anger towards them knew no end at the moment. Even as he saw in their eyes that they were broken, he could not relinquish. He knew they were merely pawns, that their intentions never involved the murder of Hogwarts' headmaster, that they were simply social egotists who believed they were being loyal to those of the Twenty-Eight. They were preposterously ignorant, either by choice or by lack of conscience. Either way, it was unforgivable in Killian's eyes. As he stormed from the manor, amidst the pleas from his mother, his heart turned to stone. They were dead to him.

Hours, passed and Killian found himself wandering through the garden maze, Thomas dancing through his legs as he walked along. He could not right well leave, as everything he owned was still within the family estate. He intended to wait until nightfall, when he would return to gather his things and disappear, never to look back.

"Do you plan on lolling about all day?" his sister's voice called to him from around a botanical corner.

"More or less," Killian answered. "What are you doing here?"

Killian's sister walked into view and joined Killian as he trudged along.

"I came to visit," she said sweetly. "I heard Mom and Dad had returned. I wanted to see them. I see you don't exactly share in my sentiments."

"Not at all," Killian agreed. "I'm sickened by the sight of them."

"Still have issues controlling your emotions, I see," his sister teased.

"Don't start," Killian retorted, although it was impossible for him to be angry with her, as much he might have tried. "Where's the baby?"

"At home with his father," his sister replied as she pulled a tulip and took in the aroma. "Came to visit on my own. Could use the time away. Your nephew has been a bit cranky as of late."

"I'm sure that comes from you," Killian said with a weak smile that did not quite release his anger.

"I'm not the one sulking in the garden," his sister pointed out. "Are you seriously planning on staying out here all day?"

"I'm leaving," Killian said.

"I heard," his sister assured. "To where, exactly?"

"I don't know," Killian admitted.

"I assumed as much," his sister said with a smile. "I think you should reconsider."

Killian stopped and looked at his sister, perplexed. She would have to be insane to even suggest he reconsider. After everything that had happened? Reconsider? Stay and live on as if everything was all right? Out of the question.

"They didn't know what was happening," his sister went on. "They were crushed when the realization set in. Now they're just trying to pick up the pieces."

"Like you did?" Killian asked.

Killian's sister paused, biting her lip and glancing towards the sky with a sigh. "Like I did," she finally agreed.

Killian sat down on the garden bench in the center of the maze. His sister's words had not fallen on deaf ears. He knew that she was right, but he did not know how he could get over it. They had facilitated the Death Eaters. Their hands were as dirty as if they had attacked the school themselves.

"I'm going back inside," his sister said softly as she placed her hand on Killian's shoulder and rubbed it reassuringly. "I do hope to see you again before I leave."

With that, she left Killian sitting there, alone with his thoughts as Thomas curled up in a ball on his lap.

Time passed, and no answers came to him. The sun began to set, and he was still torn between family and frustration. As his mind continued to wrestle, he heard the tinkering sound of a dog's collar growing nearer in the maze. Looking up, he saw Anubis bumbling and stumbling along.

"What are you doing out here, you lazy mutt?" Killian asked as Anubis rushed upon him, jittery and shaken. "You're not one for exercise."

The smell of ash began to fill the air. Forgetting why he was in the maze, Killian immediately leapt to his feet and saw a pillar of smoke over the hedge line of the garden maze. Without thinking, he took out his wand and blasted his way through walls of botanicals, revealing Finn Manor ablaze with fire in the distance.

Killian raced to the front entrance with Thomas bounding behind him. There, he entered the foyer where he heard the unmistakable sounds of curses being cast and exploding with violent force. He followed the sounds, his wand at the ready, until he reached the Grand Hall where he saw his mother lying face down on the floor, motionless, as his sister and his father were locked in duels. The smoke in the room made it nearly impossible to see whom it was that they were defending against.

Then, as the wisp of a lightning curse cleared the air momentarily, he saw them … Tanzar and his brood … They were here!

Instinctively, Killian threw himself into the battle, making his way to his sister's side.

"Get out of here!" she shouted as she saw Killian approaching.

"Are you insane?" Killian shouted back, throwing an offensive jinx that erupted in a barrier of fire between them and the brood.

"Killian!" his sister went on. "They've come here for _you_!"

"There he is!" Tanzar shouted from across the barrier of flames.

The large, hulking member of the brood charged through the fire unscathed, advancing on Killian. Killian and his sister stood firm, wands at the ready, plotting their counterattack. It was all for naught, however, as their father leapt through the air with a grace and skill that Killian had never witnessed, landing squarely between the Colossus and his children. With a sharp sweep of his shillelagh, he blasted his adversary clear across the hall before turning his attention to a small creature that had come up behind Killian.

"Take him away from here, Kuulic!" he ordered.

As soon as the words escaped his lips, Killian's father was struck in the back with a curse that propelled his body into the wall with crushing force.

"No!" Killian's sister cried as she ran to the crumpled body of their father. Killian took a step to follow but was hit squarely in the chest with a jet stream of red light. He fell backwards, the room dimming. The sound around him began to fade. He tried with all the effort he could put forth to stave off the darkness, but his efforts were in vain. As his vision faded to black, he felt a tiny, cold, and bony hand grab him by the wrist. A moment later, he felt the crushing force of Disapparation.

. . .

Several days had passed since the attack. How many, exactly, Killian was not entirely certain. Burying one's family had a tendency to make time seem obsolete. When Killian and Kuulic had returned to the manor, it was utterly devastated. Searching through the areas that were still standing, Killian found the bodies of his mother, father, and sister. As he went on, the numbers grew. Thomas, his clever little ferret, crushed under a pile of burning rubble. Seti, Anubis, all of the servants … Tanzar and his brood spared no one.

For days, Killian did not speak to Kuulic, refusing to even acknowledge the presence of his loyal servant. He irrationally blamed his loyal servant for taking him from the battle and thus allowing his family to be slaughtered. He tried to believe he could have made a difference. After a while, however, he came to realize that, had he not been taken away, he would have been killed as well. He owed his very life to Kuulic. Or, at least, whatever was left of it.

Kuulic explained to Killian how Tanzar had shown up, demanding that his father hand over his Slytherin son. He went on to explain how Killian's father refused, and how he stated emphatically that his son was twice the wizard Tanzar could ever dream of being. Tanzar and his brood then attacked. How Killian's father could have been caught so unawares would never be known. He most likely never would have anticipated anyone attacking a family of such high social standing and ancient ties. Times had changed, however. People were not thinking clearly anymore. It was a terrible misjudgment. A fatal misjudgment.

It did not take long for Killian to realize what had to be done. He could sit and wait for death to come, or he could run to meet it. He penned a letter to Hermione … His Hermione … He could not protect her … How had it come to this? He then instructed Kuulic to deliver the letter after his departure. Killian would find Tanzar and his brood, taking the fight to them to whatever end it may bring.

After delivering his orders to Kuulic, Killian began to prepare. He took his father's leather overcoat, still covered in ash and damaged by the fatal blow that had taken his father's life. He put it on and found that it fit him well. As he glanced at himself in the broken mirror across the foyer, he wondered if this would be his death shroud. With a heavy sigh, he removed the coat and placed it on a chair in the foyer along with his father's shillelagh before heading up the damaged staircase to gather supplies for his journey.

As he fumbled through the drawers in the storage closets, Killian heard banter coming from downstairs. Thinking that Tanzar may have returned, he cautiously made his way back to the staircase. As he drew nearer, he realized however, that the voices were quite familiar.

He stood at the top of the stairs, staring. There she was. Hermione.

"They comes," Kuulic explained. "Make fires and pains for the Masters. Kuulic takes Master Killian aways. Kuulic does as told. But cannot get the Masters … All gones."

"Kuulic," Hermione comforted as she knelt down in front Killian's servant, whose eyes were streaming uncontrollably.

"What are you doing here?" Killian said at last.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes beaming. She raced up the stairs and embraced him, but Killian fought any urge to reciprocate. He needed to distance himself. He could not hurt her.

Hermione, on the other hand, could not understand his reasoning. She argued with him, pleaded with him, and then, when all else failed, threatened him. He could see it. This was not the way it way supposed to be. This was not how they had planned it. Everything was falling apart, destroying her, destroying him.

He looked upon Hermione as she stood before him, her wand drawn, her eyes welling with tears, and a memory flooded back. He could fight it no longer. She kissed him, and he was filled with a passion he feared had left him forever. Amidst the death and destruction that surrounded them, Killian and Hermione found each other that night.

Just before morning, Killian left his bed while Hermione lay still in a deep and peaceful slumber. He made his way to the foyer and put on his father's overcoat. He then took his father's shillelagh and carefully unscrewed the silver orb. His father's wand was still inside, although bashed and splintered. Removing the damaged wand, he replaced it with his own and fastened the silver orb back in its place.

With a heavy sigh, he retrieved the letter he had sent to Hermione. He then made his way back to the bedroom and stood at the threshold, staring at his Gryffindor as she slept ... A vision of beauty ... A vision of perfection.

"Do not fail me, Kuulic," he said as he handed off Hermione's letter.

"Kuulic makes promise," Kuulic insisted weakly. "Kuulic no breaks this time."

With that, Killian crossed the room and knelt down beside the bed. He gently drew his hand across Hermione's cheek and leaned in, kissing her softly just below the ear. His lips hovered momentarily, the scent of her skin pervading him.

"I love you, Hermione Granger," he whispered. " _Always_ …"

Fighting off the swelling emotions in his eyes, he quickly stood and distanced himself from the bed. In an instant he Disapparated, reappearing in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley. It was as good a start as any. But first, he would have to wait. He needed to be certain that everything was all right.

It did not take long. Killian had only been standing there for a short time when a letter, singed from the fires of transportation, appeared before him. It was Hermione's letter, slightly damaged, but its Charm clearly having been put into effect.

Killian had placed a Summoning Charm on the letter to ensure it would return to him, once read. The letter had returned. It was done. And as such, the realization began to set in. Done and gone … Gone forever.

Every muscle in his body, every thought in his mind begged him to return to her, to take it all back, to hold her until the entire world faded away. His Gryffindor … His constant … His equal … His Hermione.

But it was not to be. He buried his emotions. Killian and Hermione were no more. She had forgotten him. The pain was now solely his to carry. And it was a pain he would use to rain death down upon his enemies or share in its company.

The hunt was on.


	4. Chapter 4 - Mortal Immortals

_It's been a bit, but here is a new post. The first after the whole "flashbacks through Killian's eyes" portion of the story. Not much to say. It kind of pick up shortly after the flashback started. Hoping to keep the posts moving a bit quicker over the next few chapters. I hate, hate, hate it when there is a week or more between posts. Uhg!_

 _But I digress ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Four -_

 _Mortal Immortals_

After another long day of emotional swings and repressing fears for the sake of Bill and Fleur's fast approaching wedding, Hermione sat on her bed, flipping through her copy of _Hogwarts, A History_. It was not exactly her bed, per se. More the one she had been using since they arrived at the Burrow. She could not exactly call it home, nor even a second home. A third, perhaps. But always a place she had felt comfortable and welcomed.

So much had happened over the previous days and weeks. Her parents were gone, having forgotten their daughter via a Memory Charm she, herself, placed upon them to protect them from any potential interrogations from Death Eaters. At that very moment, they were half a world away, enjoying the warm sun of the Australian beaches, safe and carefree.

Hermione had taken part in an escape from Privett Drive through an onslaught of Death Eaters, Professor Snape amongst them, through means of a coordinated effort involving seven Harry Potters and multiple routes as decoys. And in its wake, Mad-Eye Moody was added to the losses the Order had faced of late. Although his body had not yet been recovered, based on those who witnessed the event during the escape, Alastor had been struck by a curse square in the face before he fell from his broom and plummeted thousands of feet into the darkness below.

First Professor Dumbledore, and now Moody. If there were ever two wizards Hermione thought would live forever, it would have been them. But neither were immortal after all. They were merely two more victims added to the countless lives lost throughout this war within the wizarding world.

Earlier that day, Harry and Ron were going back on forth on whether or not Mad-Eye might have survived. It was a pointless argument, as whether or not the Order found his body, no one could survive a fall from that height. It was more of a way to cope. If he was not found, then there would always be that question as to whether perhaps a miracle occurred. A miracle that kept a symbol of strength and hope from leaving this world. Even still, it brought Hermione to tears.

Constant vigilance, as Harry reminded her. It was Mad-Eye's philosophy; a philosophy that was being tested and strained with every day that followed.

Since then, Mrs. Weasley had done all she could to distract everyone from the horrors of the world, keeping them busy in preparation for the upcoming wedding. Hermione thought it saddening to know that such a joyous event would be tainted by the reality surrounding it. Then again, if something beautiful could exist in a world and pain and chaos, perhaps there was hope after all.

Bill and Fleur certainly seemed happy, regardless of all that had occurred. Earlier in the day Hermione had overheard them speaking of the upcoming ceremony as well as their life beyond. Even with him suffering the effects of Greyback's bite, Fleur's love for Bill never faltered, never waned.

A particular moment during their conversation actually stuck out more than the others. They were discussing the various plans for their new home; the furniture, the dishes, window dressing, and such. Fleur had commented on how Bill appeared to have it all figured out.

"Well, I haven't picked out the colors yet," Bill responded cheekily. "I thought you might like to do that."

His response pulled at Hermione's heart for reasons that almost seemed silly. It was nearly verbatim to a dream Hermione had the evening before. Such an odd dream about … In truth, she was not entirely certain what it was about. She could not remember with whom she was speaking nor what they were speaking of in the general sense. But it made her happy. Happy in a way she had not felt in what seemed like an eternity.

" _So you have it all figured out then?"_

" _Well, I haven't picked out colors or anything … I rather thought you'd enjoy that."_

So silly … So very, very silly.

. . .

Killian walked alone down a dark street in the south of London, turning down a back alley and entered a squalid pup. Ironically named Mercy's, it was an underground gathering place for Death Eaters, as well as others who had not yet taken the mark, but supported the Dark Lord's cause for the reign of pure blooded wizards over Muggles and Mudbloods.

"Aye!" the barkeep shouted. "Ain't no children allowed in 'ere!"

Ignoring the remark, Killian continued towards the bar. He had been searching for the gruff and surly wizard seated there with a pint of ale in one hand and a shot of whiskey in the other for almost a week.

"Ain't you got ears boy?" the barkeep went on. "Find the door and use it 'fore I lose my temper!"

The man at the bar turned and eyed Killian with immediate recognition.

"Awright …" the barkeep said, drawing his wand and raising it to strike. "You asked for it …"

In a flash, the barkeep's wand was blasted from his hand as Killian reached the bar and took a seat.

"Leave him be," Dolohov said, replacing his wand, still simmering from his explosive jinx, within his coat. "He's with me."

"Might 'ave said that," the barkeep said, grimacing as he massaged his hand whilst retrieving his wand.

"Might have," Dolohov dismissed. "Didn't." He then turned his attention to Killian. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Killian countered. "Haven't you got more important things to do?"

Dolohov shook his head with dismissive disgust. "Not at the moment," he answered. "Soon enough though."

Killian had heard of the assault on the home of Harry Potter's aunt and uncle through various whispers bounding about the underbelly of the city. He had not, however, uncovered any reliable information regarding the outcome. Because of this, and other personal reasons, Killian sought out Antonin Dolohov. If Voldemort had planned an organized attack against the Order, it was a certainty one of his strongest lieutenants would have been among those present.

"Things did not go as planned?" Killian asked.

Dolohov did not answer, his eyes glancing towards the barkeep, then towards the few other patrons haunting the dilapidated establishment. He then downed his shot and pint, slamming the glasses down and sliding them away.

"Outside," he growled under his breath. "Now."

Together, Killian and Dolohov exited Mercy's Pub and wound around to the back alley. Now safe from prying eyes and ears, Dolohov pressed Killian to the wall.

"What do you know of it?" he asked.

"Nothing more than the gossip spreading throughout London," Killian answered coolly. "Would you mind?" he went on, glancing at Dolohov's hands that were clenched upon Killian's collar.

Releasing Killian and running his fingers through his hair, Dolohov began to pace in the darkness.

"It was a mess," he explained. "A bloody mess. We had the information. Knew exactly when to strike. Should have been perfect. But there were seven of them. No one expected that."

"No one expected seven members of the Order?" Killian asked, perplexed by the idea that such a small number would be at all surprising.

"Not members of the Order," Dolohov clarified through gritted teeth. "Seven bloody Potters! … Have to admit, it was clever. Threw us all in a scramble."

"And?" Killian asked on.

"What do you mean _and_?" Dolohov asked in return. "No way to tell which one was the real Potter. The coordinated attack split apart, each chasing a different group. Was a right mess in the end."

"So it was not a success?" Killian asked, although it was more a statement than a question. Dolohov's demeanor as he recalled the event indicated nothing short of failure.

"No," Dolohov conceded. "Although it was not a loss in its entirety. We didn't leave empty handed."

"What do you mean?"

"Suffice to say old Mad-Eye won't be getting any replacement parts this time."

Amongst the varied stories floating around the underground, a rumor that Alastor Moody had been struck down was chief among them. Killian found it difficult to believe, as Mad-Eye seemed near god-like in status, having survived horrendous battles and the injuries that would have ended the lives of the most skilled of wizards. Regardless of this mythical status, the demise of this honored, respected, and feared Auror appeared to be true. And no one could argue the loss of Moody would be significant blow to any resistance against Lord Voldemort and his followers.

"So are we through with this beating around the bush nonsense?" Dolohov said, suddenly turning the conversation off topic. "You've no interest in our attack in Little Whinging. Not your fight. You going to tell me why you're really here?"

"Technically, it's not your fight either," Killian pointed out. "Observe and report. On the outside, never within, remember."

"I'm not a Watcher anymore," Dolohov said. "Left that life a long time ago. Found a better one. One with real potential. And don't pretend it's not where the wind was blowing," he went on before Killian could respond. "Even your father saw it. Maybe not the first time around. But he was smart enough to at least act as a neutral player, see which side goes where. He would have fallen in line when all was said and done. And he would have been welcomed."

The silence that fell between the two was deafening. Almost instantly, the grizzly anger that had been etched in Dolohov's expression softened, an almost unrecognizable expression of sympathy arising in its place.

"I heard what happened," he said. "Tanzar and his filthy brood are a cowardly lot. They'll answer for what they've done."

"You're right, I'm not here to talk about your failed attack," Killian said curtly.

His tone was purposefully biting in an attempt to steer away from their current direction as well as hide the sudden and overwhelming sense of loss even he could not bury. And while not entirely honest, as his concern for both what had happened and a lack of information on how it played out weighted heavily upon him, he truly did have an ulterior motive for seeking out Antonin.

"No?" Dolohov asked. "Then why did you come?"

"I need information," Killian answered.

"Information about what, exactly?"

"Tanzar."

Dolohov sympathy melted away and evolved into growing concern. His mouth opened and closed, as if wishing to respond but failing to do so. "Well, we can't keep talking here," he finally said. "Support is on the rise, but we still have plenty of enemies within the Ministry. For now, at least. Where are you staying?"

"Nowhere in particular," Killian answered.

"Wrong," Dolohov said. "You're coming with me. You'll be safe and among friends. We'll get this all sorted out."

"I appreciate the offer," Killian dismissed, "but I'll be fine on my own."

Concern now gave way to another expression. One not as discernable as the previous ones had been, but equally uncharacteristic. Dolohov took a step back from Killian, looking him over several times before readdressing the defiant young Slytherin.

"You're fine, are you?" Dolohov asked.

"I am," Killian assured.

"You're certain?" he asked on.

"Entirely."

"Because the thing is, you don't look fine," Dolohov pressed. "You look lost. You've got your father's coat," he went on, gesturing to Killian's attire. "Got his shillelagh, too, I see. But that look in your eyes; that doubt, that fear …Never saw that in your father … That's the look of an individual chasing their own death."

Again, Killian found himself looking for a way to divert the focus away from the cause that brought him to where he was and lead it towards the vengeful effects said circumstances would bring. Until that moment, he had not realized how feeble a hold he had on his own being. Until confronted with one who knew of what Tanzar and his brood had done, knew the damage they had inflicted, and recognized the shattered remains left in the tragedy's wake, he had not realized the shrouding adulteration of growing weakness and doubt hidden behind a façade that, while strong and confident to the observer, was as thin and fragile as the stem of a tall tapered crystal flute.

Killian struggled as the reality of the invariable, enduring, and absolute loss finally overtook his senses. He was absorbed by the inner confliction as his once reluctantly embraced Slytherin persona, so very proud and emotionless, gave way to the all too human individual he had kept hidden his entire life. One after the other, the thoughts cascaded through his consciousness. His father, his mother, his sister … Gone. Hermione … A person who, beyond all reason, saw through his illusions, shattered his smoke and mirrors, to both uncover and nurture a lost soul who did not warrant such tender acceptance and understanding. He longed for her touch, a touch he cast away upon his own velleity.

Distracted and unfocused, Killian did not see Dolohov reach for his wand. Nor was he prepared when struck with the unforgiving explosion of Dolohov's attack that sent him careening down the alley, landing him awkwardly on his side with his father's shillelagh falling free from his hand.

"On your feet!" Dolohov shouted as he fired another curse that missed Killian by a hair.

Killian stumbled upright and retrieved his father's shillelagh just in time to deflect two more jinxes, but was unable to counter with any effectiveness.

"Shouldn't have come here alone, Killian," Dolohov went on as he continued his onslaught with relentless aggression.

Reacting upon instinct alone, Killian continued to deflect and defend, finding himself being pressed further and further back into the dark shadows behind Mercy's Pub. On the rare moment he was able to cast a jinx of his own, Dolohov waved it off with the ease of passing through a breeze.

"Mind your surroundings," Dolohov taunted, having cornered Killian with no escape. "I would have thought Severus taught you better."

The sound of Professor Snape's name enraged Killian. His anger pulsed through his body as a sudden surge of adrenaline forced him into a wild counterattack, casting with blind aggression. The moment was short lived, however, as his wild and undisciplined form was easily handled. Within seconds, he found himself disarmed, defenseless, and pinned against the wall.

"This is the _man_ who will hunt down Tanzar?" Dolohov goaded as he picked up Killian's father's shillelagh while binding Killian within his curse. "Something you should know, _boy_ ," he went on. "You are not special. You're nothing more than the product of a proper bloodline. You can feel pain …" moving in close, he increased the tenacity of his curse "… You can bleed … You can die …"

As the binding continued to constrain and constrict, Killian began to feel dizzy, the light in the area fading beyond the shadows, the air itself a mere echo of silence. Just short of eternal darkness, Dolohov released his curse and Killian fell to the ground, gasping for air and clarity.

"And you will die," Dolohov said grimly, "if you go off into this world with fear and uncertainty, he concluded, extending his hand.

Killian grasped it and was pulled to his feet.

"You're no longer in school, Killian," Dolohov explained. "Out here, no one cares who you are or where you came from. That weakness I just saw in your eyes … It will be exploited. And it will be your end."

"I can't find them. They've disappeared," Killian admitted, unable to even look Dolohov in the eyes after being completely and unequivocally exposed. "I don't know what to do."

"That's painfully obvious," Dolohov agreed. "What did you expect? You'd dress yourself up and Tanzar would come waltzing into play for you? Good for you he didn't. Because if he had, you'd be dead."

Again, Killian felt ashamed. For the first time since dueling with his sister on their family's estate as children, he felt completely inadequate and unprepared. He had already failed at Hogwarts, a failure that cost him everything he ever held dear. Now, in the aftermath, he had failed again.

"Lucky for you," Dolohov continued, "I do know what to do. First off," he went on, putting his arm over Killian's shoulder and leading him out of the alley, "you will be coming with me, and we are going to have a little discussion. The answer is simple, you've just been going about it all wrong. The question is how far you're willing to go to get what you want."

"As far as needed," Killian answered.

"We'll see, won't we," Dolohov said with a laugh. "We'll see."

As they reached the edge of the alley, Killian paused. Now that the tension had been alleviated, he no longer felt it necessary to hide his interest in what occurred during Lord Voldemort's failed attack at Privett Drive.

"Who was there?" he asked.

"Where?" Dolohov asked in return.

"Little Whinging," Killian clarified. "At the house. I imagine you knew who to expect. Outside of seven Potter, that is."

"The usual lot," Dolohov answered. "Remus, Tonks, Shacklebolt, and such."

"Who were the Potters then?"

"We figure the Weasley brats, that Veela fiancé, and his nosy bookworm of a friend," Dolohov explained. "Numbers fit. And they're always hanging about. A bit reckless using children, don't you think? Pompous and righteous as they are."

"Did you get any of them?" Killian asked, almost fearful of hearing the answer.

"Mad- Eye was good enough for the night," Dolohov answered. "The Dark Lord doesn't see it that way now, but he'll soon see. One less in their command to worry about. Makes them weaker."

"Very true," Killian agreed, burying the ache in his heart over the loss of one of the world greatest Aurors.

Even before Dolohov's confirmation, there was little doubt in Killian's mind that Hermione was among the seven Potters who escaped Little Whinging. If Dolohov was to be believed, with the exception of Alastor Moody, all survived the attack. This meant that, at the moment, Hermione was safe. Soon she would arrive at Hogwarts where she would be even more so. It was a faint relief, but a relief nonetheless.

Now, however, he had to regain his focus. As much as he loathed the admission, perhaps it was best that he would not be alone for the night. After all, he had gone to Dolohov for a reason. He could think of no one better who could help him prepare for the fight that lay ahead. The event in the alley had given a clear indication he was not as prepared as he had once thought. Now, however, knowing that Hermione was safely under the protection of the Order, he could focus on the task at hand. And, as Dolohov had offhandedly mentioned, discover just how far he was willing to go to reap his vengeance upon Tanzar and his brood.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Edge of Iniquity

_Two nights/mornings (depending on your time-zones) in a row. Although I admit, I sort of cheated. This chapter was already more or less completed when I realized I wished to write the previous chapter. The events in chapter 4 were originally just sort of glossed over in a few paragraphs of narrative. But I decided it better to flesh them out a bit more instead. Thus, the long delay in postings between 3 and 4. Now, however, Chapter 5 is up and ready to ... I don' t know ... Be read, I guess._

 _Anyways ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Five -_

 _The Edge of Iniquity_

" _What's this?"_

"It's one of my rings," Hermione answered. "I'm marking you."

Hermione looked into the eyes of the stranger who sat beside her on the stoop in front of her parents' house. She knew him. She was certain of it. As much as she struggled, however, she could not recognize him. She could see his eyes, his hair, his mouth, but for some reason the complete picture remained unfocused ... Clouded and distracted.

" _Marking me?"_

Hermione smiled. "That's right …" She felt so comfortable, so secure. "I have ears. I've heard what some of the girls have said about you, Slytherin or not. I'm not about to sit around while a gaggle of silly little schoolgirls follow you around like lost puppies."

" _Now you're just feeding my ego."_

"Your ego doesn't need feeding. It needs a leash."

The stranger grinned. It was annoying, irritating, but at the same time she longed for it. It was right there before her, yet it made no sense at all.

" _Aren't you worried someone might recognize your ring?"_

"No one at school would recognize it," she assured. "I've never worn it there. But it's clearly a girl's ring, so anyone who sees it will know that you're not available," she added cleverly, enjoying every passing moment of their playful back and forth banter more than the last.

The stranger raised an eyebrow and leaned towards Hermione.

" _And how do I mark you, then?"_

Hermione awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around and soon gained her bearings. Sighing heavily, she saw the dusty hallowed interior of Grimmauld Place all about her.

Having escaped the Death Eater's clutches during a second attack after the fall of the Ministry, the near abandoned interior of Sirius Black's family home had become the safest place in all the world for Hermione, Harry, and Ron as of late. Like the Burrow, it was not quite home. But given the state of her world, what really could be anymore?

Getting up and crossing the room towards the long mirror above the dresser, she flipped her fingers through her hair and examined herself thoroughly. She had not been sleeping well as of late, plagued by strange dreams from which she awoke overcome with misplaced emotions and a horrible feeling of emptiness. Odd as it seemed, she often wished she could remain asleep, for her fantasies seemed far more pleasant and gratifying than her reality.

"Heard you bumping around in here," Ron said, opening the door and knocking simultaneously.

"I'm fine," Hermione assured. "Just a bit restless—you have something on the side of your mouth."

"What?" Ron asked as he ran his palm across his face, knocking crumbs to the bedroom floor. "Oh, yeah, corn muffin. Want one? Got plenty."

"No thanks, Ron," Hermione answered. "Go back to bed."

"Right then," Ron said with a nod. "If you need anything."

Hermione nodded in return as Ron turned and headed back to his room, leaving the door open as Harry took a step inside.

"Oh, hi Harry," Hermione greeted with a smile. "You're up as well?"

"I wasn't," Harry admitted. "Ron woke me thumping out of the room and heading over here. Are you sure you're okay, Hermione?"

"Yes," Hermione insisted. "Just … having odd dreams is all."

"Odd dreams?" Harry inquired. "Like what?"

"Nothing to be worried about," Hermione answered quickly, knowing of Harry's issues with Voldemort getting into his head through dreams and visions. "They're really stupid, actually. Silly girl dreams."

Harry smiled. "Like what? Shopping and eating lemon pop snaps?"

"No," Hermione answered with a laugh. "More like conversations with boys and other nonsense."

"Boys?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Well, not boys," Hermione clarified, blushing slightly. "Just one actually. It's rather ridiculous."

"Why's that?" Harry asked on. "Is he enormously hideous or something?"

As much as she tried to subdue it, Hermione's smiled beamed through, her eyes glancing at the ceiling as she recalled her dream. "He's a Slytherin."

"And?" Harry asked.

"And what?" Hermione asked in return.

"What's so ridiculous about that?" Harry asked with a chuckle.

"Seriously?" Hermione laughed dismissively. "Can you imagine?"

Hermione expected Harry to share in her amusement. Instead, he simply stared at her, seemingly puzzled.

"What?" she asked, suddenly uncomfortable with Harry's expression.

"Nothing," he answered. "It's just …" He stopped himself, a slightly perplexed look still etched on his face. "Never mind. Goodnight, then," he finally said as he slowly exited and closed the door.

 _That was a bit odd_ , Hermione thought as she climbed back into bed and nestled under the covers. She soon dismissed the event, attributing it to the vast amount of stress they were all feeling as of late. As Hermione closed her eyes and began to drift off, she smiled to herself. Perhaps she would dream, once again, of her handsome stranger. Slytherin or not, she had quite enjoyed his company thus far.

. . .

Elsewhere, at that very moment, the inspiration for Hermione's dream was awake and plotting. He had not the luxury of sleep. Instead, he found himself waiting outside in the shadows near Farr's Inn, stalking his prey.

Prior to his meeting with Dolohov, Killian had been wandering the dark and seedy streets where wizards of a lower class were known to dwell. He searched in vain for an encounter, but found nothing. Tanzar and his brood were on the lam. Even with the wizarding world in shambles, their attack on high-ranking members of society was something that created an outcry for justice. But that was not what Killian was looking for. Justice was the furthest thing from his mind.

When a wizard wants to disappear, he is very unlikely to be found. At least, any wizard worth his wand. Dolohov had made this very clear. Thus, seeking out Tanzar would be a madman's quest. What he needed, instead, was to create a sense of urgency in Tanzar. He needed to make it so that Tanzar would seek him out. Vengeance, as Dolohov explained in great detail, was a wonderful motivator … A dangerous one, but exceptionally effective.

One of the darkest and most dangerous of Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters had now given Killian direction, laid out a path. In doing so, he could have made it all the simpler had he simply given the information Killian desired outright. But therein lay the true test. How far was Killian willing to go to get what he desired? What was he willing to do? What was he willing to give up?

His new path led him back to the same filthy streets he haunted before to no avail. This time, however, he was not looking for Tanzar, he sought information. It cost a large handful of Galleons, but that mattered little to Killian. If he had learned anything from his father, it was that enough money will buy you any amount of anything you desire. Luxuries, people, information. Everything had a price. What Killian purchased were names. Kane, the Scarred One … Barabbas, the Colossus … Vetis and Verin, the Deadpan Twins. Tanzar's brood. Well worth the price. And there was one other name on the list. Unlike the others, however, this name also came with a location. And this person would be the key to it all.

Quintus, first cousin of Tanzar. Killian knew little of him, other than Quintus and Tanzar were close at one time or another and that he was currently staying, along with several bodyguards, in the comforts of Farr's Inn. Quintus, like his demented cousin before his fall from grace, came from the elite higher society, the small portion straddling the threshold between two worlds, enjoying the benefits of both while escaping eithers shortcomings whenever convenient. As such, an entourage of skilled wizards in his escort was commonplace regardless in which world he occupied. For Killian, this were an irritating obstacle that he would have to overcome.

He peered from the shadows as Quintus and his group entered the Inn. They had been out all night enjoying the rural atmosphere, women, and pubs. Quintus was inebriated, but it was doubtful his bodyguards would be as well. That would be too easy.

The windows in Quintus' room came alight. They were settling in. Perfect. Killian would give it a little while longer. No need to rush. Let them relax. Let them sink into the soft comforts of false security. They had no notion he was outside watching, waiting.

When he believed he had given them long enough, Killian slowly made his way to the entrance, his hair and longcoat dampened by the evening's rains. Gripping his father's shillelagh firmly, he reached the door. No … Not his father's … His ... His _staff_ … His weapon.

Inside, the foyer was calm and quiet. A burly red-bearded man sat behind the counter and greeted Killian as he entered. The Inn's proprietor, Waldrom Farr. Killian paid him no mind, heading straight for the stairs leading to the second floor.

"Excuse me, sir," Waldrom called to him. "Are you here to see someone? You can't just go up there, sir! Sir!"

Killian continued to ignore the proprietor, even as he heard the call for security. This was going to be ugly. Perhaps he had not planned this out as well as he thought. Why was he so calm? Why was he not running? Surely, Quintus' bodyguards had heard the commotion coming from the first floor. The advantage of surprise was gone. Perhaps, that was what he wanted all along. Perhaps he needed it. This would be no craven's attack, no cowardly action. He would meet them head on.

When Killian reached the top of the stairs, his assumption proved to be correct. Quintus' door swung open and one of his bodyguards entered the hall, looking for the source of the commotion. Unfortunately for him, he should have had his wand at the ready. This was not the alley behind Mercy's Pub. Killian would not be caught unaware again. Without hesitation, he blasted the ill-prepared wizard down the hall and through the window. Too easy.

Killian continued on and entered Quintus' suite, barring the door with a Barrier Charm to keep any security that may venture up at bay. Inside, he was greeted by the two remaining bodyguards. They were not as foolish as the first, having their wands drawn and casting a first strike on the intruder.

Appearances can be deceiving, as Killian soon discovered. While they looked quite imposing, these wizards were moderately skilled at best. Hermione had posed more of a threat in their duel in the Forbidden Forest … _Hermione_ … No … He could not allow for distraction.

He could have ended it sooner, but he needed to be certain that Quintus was actually in the suite. If not, Killian would have to make sure that one of the guards was conscious enough to give the whereabouts of Tanzar's noble cousin. After several minutes of effortless parrying, however, Killian saw his mark, huddled behind a large ornately padded chair in the corner. He was there, after all. A stroke of bad luck for the unskilled wizards who were charged with protecting him. Within seconds, the duel was over.

"Do you know who I am?" Killian asked as he stood over the unconscious bodies of Quintus' guardians, his silver-topped staff drawn upon the shivering aristocrat.

"N-No," Quintus stammered. "I d-don't know … Why are you doing this? Please! I've d-d-done nothing to you!"

"No," Killian agreed, coldly. "You have not. This has nothing to do with you at all. Nor did it have to do with my mother, my father, my sister. But that does not matter now, does it?"

"Wait ..." Quintus shivered, a look of recognition washing over his face. "The Finns. I d-do know you. Killian? Killian Finn? I knew your parents. And y-your sister. I was there at her wedding. Do you not remem—"

"Do not speak of my sister!" Killian shouted, blasting a hole in the wall aside Quintus.

In truth, Killian remembered very little of his sister's wedding, including those who were in attendance. He had spent most it hiding away from the bustle and forced niceties involved within and formal gathering of proper society.

Being of said society, as well as among those in the bloodline of the Twenty-Eight, there was little doubt Quintus was, in fact, in attendance at the wedding. However, Killian would not let something so insignificant interfere with his task.

"P-Please …" Quintus continued to plead. "I had nothing to do with what happened. "Your parents … I c-considered them f-friends."

"I have not accused you of anything," Killian interrupted. "I neither believe you were involved, nor do I care to investigate. And perhaps if you'd been a better friend," he continued, leaning in and directing his staff towards Quintus' shivering face, "you would still be speaking of them in the present tense."

The terrified member of the elite class Killian so detested sniveled and wept at his feet. The man represented everything Killian hated about where he came from, who he was, and who he was expected to be. This moment was not come upon. It was inevitable, already written, already played out years before this day. The only element needed was the players in attendance. This night, those elements, at long last, came into being.

"Why are you here?" Quintus asked weakly, his face white with fear as he cowered in the corner.

"You and Tanzar are close, yes?" Killian asked, as security began to pound on the door.

Quintus looked at the door with a glimmer of hope.

Killian fired upon the wall aside Quintus's head. "They will not get in here in time to save you! Now, I have asked you a question!"

"What?" Quintus asked, covering his head from the debris that fell from the wall.

"Your cousin," Killian repeated. "Are … you … close?"

"Y-Yes," Quintus stammered. "I mean, we were. At one time. B-But I was sickened at what he did …"

"Were you?" Killian asked, focusing his staff on Quintus' face.

"Yes!" Quintus answered. "What he did … It was butchery! What kind of a p-person do you think I am?"

"I think nothing of you," Killian answered. "Your cousin has taken something from me. Now I will take something from him."

" _He is not a person … He is not a living, breathing thing … He is a tool, a means to your end … How far are you willing to go, Killian?_

Killian raised his staff to strike. The sounds of Quintus' pleas for mercy melded with the pounding at the doors as security tried vehemently to gain access. All the while, Dolohov's words rang through Kilian's consciousness. Killing Tanzar's cousin would certainly draw the coward out of hiding. _Vengeance_. Killian had reached the edge of iniquity and was staring into the dark abyss. Once done, there would be no way to take back this action.

Suddenly, the world around Killian seemed to stand still. He looked down upon the man he was about to destroy, the man he was about to murder. Quintus was neither a Death Eater nor a Dark Wizard. Quintus was not Tanzar. He was innocent. He neither expected nor deserved this end.

Suddenly, another voice echoed through Killian's mind. An unwelcomed voice. A voice that instilled anger, hatred, and betrayal … Snape …

" _Oftentimes people are judged by the company they keep rather than the content of their character_ _…"_

Killian wanted so desperately to block it out, but could not deny the meaning held within the words of his mentor, regardless of what his true person might have been. Killian was faced with a choice. Was Quintus a man or simply a means to an end? Could one truly justify the purposeful, yet avoidable, death of an innocent, no matter what purpose it might serve?

No … He could not be that person. He would not. Slowly, as Killian's conscience weighed in upon him, he lowered his staff.

"T-Thank you," Quintus cried, tears pouring down his face and he continued to shiver in the corner. "Thank you, thank you, thank you …"

"Silence!" Killian commanded with authority. "You will inform your cousin that I paid you a visit."

"What? … How?" Quintus asked, completely perplexed. "I have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere."

"Then it is upon you to make this night known," Killian went on. "Everywhere."

"That would be madness," Quintus went on. "And impossible … Let anyone from there know about what happened here? About anything that has ever happened here? Absolutely impossible. It cannot be done. Do you have any idea of the consequences?"

"I do," Killian said coolly. "But you seem clever enough. I have no doubt you will discover a way."

Quintus took a moment to draw it all in, everything that was occurring around him. In a humbling moment, he looked to Killian.

"If Tanzar hears of this," he explained sympathetically, "he will kill you."

"He will _try_ ," Killian corrected with a darkened arrogance that grew stronger with each breath.

"I am _begging_ you," Quintus pleaded. "All this blood ... Do not add yourself to it. Just run … Get away from all of this!"

Killian redirected his staff upon Quintus. "Beg for _your_ life, not _mine_ ," he warned. "And you will do as I ask or I shall return to finish what I've started. Is that at all unclear?"

Quintus nodded sheepishly. Having made his point, Killian turned toward the doors and blasted them from their hinges, taking out the remaining security in the process. He then calmly exited the room, leaving shattered destruction, unconscious bodies, and a quivering aristocrat in his wake.

Once outside, Killian headed away from the Inn under cover of darkness. The rains had begun to fall again, saturating Killian as walked on, cleansing away the darkness that had nearly overtaken him. He had come so close to crossing over, becoming no better than Tanzar and his brood, no better than a Death Eater. Dolohov had laid out the challenge, carving a path for Killian that, while accomplishing the intended goal, led straight to a world of unyielding darkness. How far was he willing to go?

Killian wanted vengeance, but not at that price. Dolohov's guidance had served its purpose. Killian now realized how he must be if he was to survive within these worlds. Prepared, unyielding, relentless. But there was a limit to that extent. While a Death Eater may have prepared him for what lay ahead, from there on, Killian would carve his own path. There was still a difference between them; he and Dolohov. There had to be. He walked _among_ them, but he was not _one_ of them. It was a promise he had made to Hermione as she lay beside him. She had forgotten him now, but he had not forgotten his promise, nor did he have any intention of betraying her trust in him … Remembered or not.


	6. Chapter 6 - Horcruxes and Silver Rings

_After a very long delay, Chapter Six is finally posted. I am terribly sorry for having taken so long. I apologize even more so to those who contacted me directly, asking me when the next post would be up. I gave a date, and failed to meet it. I have a wonderful excuse that includes illness, ludicrous hours at work, narcolepsy, micro-sleep, and a talking panda named Ghalleon. But alas, there truly are no excuses for an excuse._

 _But I digress. Please note that a portion of the dialogue has been taken directly from JK Rowling's HP and the Deathly Hallows. As always, I do not own, I merely borrow. Enjoy ..._

 _\- Chapter Six -_

 _Horcruxes and Silver Rings_

"I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep," Hermione said, burying both her anger and frustration towards Harry at the moment.

"I can finish the watch!" Harry assured with a firm frustration of his own.

"No, you're obviously exhausted," Hermione argued. "Go and lie down."

She would hear no more of it, stubbornly sitting down at the entrance to the tent without another word. Luckily, it appeared Harry had no more a desire to fight over the matter than she, entering the tent in a huff without further debate. Although, mere seconds later Hermione heard Harry and Ron continuing their conversation, albeit in undertones, in the quiet of their new temporary residence.

And there it was. With Grimmauld place now having been compromised, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were now on the run. This clearing of trees, once occupied by thousands of wizards attending the Quidditch World Cup, would be where they lay their heads for the evening. But of the next night, or the night after … Only time would tell.

From the moment Hermione left her home in order to help Harry escape Little Whinging, she had felt lost and empty. She had left more than just the house within she was born and raised, she left the parents she loved; and who loved her as well if they had the memory to do so. She had also left Hogwarts before even attending for her final term. She was then made to leave the Burrow. And now Grimmauld Place. In a matter of only a few months, Hermione had lost near every manner of home she could consider. Now, _home_ had been reduced to a tent in a hastily chosen clearing.

And within this new life less stable, Hermione was struggling. More so than she imagined. While she was never foolish enough to believe it would be an easy task to keep the promise she and Ron had made to Harry after the death of Professor Dumbledore, she had not anticipated just how difficult it would be. Even as she sat there, staring at the starry sky, taking deep and calculating breaths to calm her nerves, she felt a desperate longing to be held, to feel someone's arms wrapped around her, comforting her. It seemed such an odd pining, as such physical contact had never played much of a part in her life. Too busy with her studies, she supposed. And when the books were not in play, Harry certainly kept her busy, as well.

Still, she had her dreams.

" _I don't very much like being touched, I suppose …"_

But she was touching him. And she was touching her, his fingers gently caressing her skin as she felt the warmth of his body beneath her hand. It was a nocturnal fantasy so vivid, so overwhelmingly absorbing, she could still feel the sensations tickling up the back of her leg, along her spine, all the way to the base of her neck. Just thinking of it sent a shiver through Hermione that had no bearing on the cold air whistling about in the surrounding darkness.

Her stranger. A faceless representation of everything that could not have been any less Slytherin if he were wearing a Gryffindor crest upon his cloak. Why this subconscious creation took on the colors of green and silver was beyond her understanding. A desire to see this war come to an end, perhaps? Adversaries putting their differences aside and meeting together on a common ground?

Such a thing was truly a work of fiction, as there existed no world in which Death Eaters would stand along Muggles and wizards of less than pure blood. And while she was aware these sorts of desperate wants often manifest themselves through dreams, for Hermione they had become more of an escape. They were a way to feel as if … In actuality, if she were to be honest with herself, she was not at all certain how it made her feel. She simply knew it made her feel something. And whatever it was, it was beautiful.

Her only sadness lay with her inability to see beyond the clouded shroud of unfocused imagery that continuously vailed her singularly focused subject whose simple touch triggered a cascade of sensations throughout her body. Each moment was like glancing at an image through a fractured mirror, its cracks like sharpened webbing that directed reality into hundreds of shards that, if placed together, created a clear reflection; but instead left Hermione with little more than brief glimpses in random chaotic fashion.

Despite her greatest efforts, these disembodies features would not come into one being. They remained, like the details held within many dreams, just beyond her reach. A true shame, in Hermione's opinion, as her stranger had the most wonderful eyes. She was almost certain of it. If only she could see them.

. . .

"Oh, all right, all right," Hermione said, placing the Horcrux around her neck and feeling the cold metal against her skin as it slid down her shirt. "But we'll take turns wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long."

"Great," Ron grumbled, "and now we've sorted that out, can we please get some food?"

"Fine, but we'll go somewhere else to find it," Hermione conceded, glancing at Harry for either support or objection, but receiving neither. "There's no point staying where we know Dementors are swooping around."

In this, the three of them were in agreement. So the trio set off to find substance elsewhere, settling on a small rural farm where they were able to smuggle off a few eggs and bread. And while leaving money in place of the food they had stolen was not quite the same as purchasing it legally, Hermione felt a bit better in knowing they had not fallen so far as resorting to outright thievery without remorse.

Once fed, they found their spirits lifted. At least, more than it had been when they were scared, tired, frustrated, and hungry. Scared, tired, and frustrated was far more bearable on a full stomach. But not even a hearty meal and the company of the closest of friends could completely erase the awful emptiness Hermione continued to feel; a condition made worse when it was her turn to possess the Horcrux. The Dark Magic held within had a power beyond a torn soul. Each of them had felt it and each of them shared in it.

"I don't want to," Ron huffed as he sat on the floor outside the entrance to their tent, his arm still in a sling from the splinching, but healing well enough. "I hate that thing. I really hate it."

"None of us want to, Ron," Hermione said as she removed the necklace, walked behind Ron, and placed it around his neck.

" _And how do I mark you then? …"_

The moment flashed through Hermione's mind as it had on so many night previous. His breath upon her neck as he leaned in close; the inviting, yet infuriating arrogance in his tone. No matter her desires, however, the moment was immediately tossed aside with a dismissive sigh. She had no time for such fantasies at the moment. Particularly after having worn that cursed locket containing the soul fragment of the Dark Lord. Its cold and destructive contents bled any happy thoughts dry from those who carried the burden of its weight. They could not dispose of the wretched object soon enough.

Leaving Ron to his watch, Hermione entered the tent to join Harry. She was surprised to see him awake. Albeit, lost in thought and blind to all around him as he sat on the floor near his bed, but awake nonetheless.

Hermione crossed the floor and joined Harry on the floor. She was uncertain as to why. It simply felt improper to pass by him without a word, fall upon her bed, and bury her head in her pillow. Although there was nothing more in the world she wanted to do at the moment. Harry offered her a glance and soft weak smile, but little else as he massaged his fingers and palm.

"What's wrong with your hand?" she asked.

"What?" Harry asked in return. "Oh … Yeah, I … It's nothing," he bumbled in explanation.

"Let me see," Hermione insisted, taking Harry's hand into hers. In seeing the faded scars bearing the reminder _I must not tell lies_ , she did a double take. She had seen the script a hundred times before; a barbaric reminder of Umbridge's short, but brutal, reign over Hogwarts. But for some reason it did not seem correct. The words, the script, or both … It just seemed wrong. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Passing it off as she had been doing with a great many misplaced feeling over the passing weeks, Hermione examined the red and swollen knuckles. "Harry …" she chastised.

"It's nothing," Harry insisted. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Hermione disagreed, turning his hand over and giving it a thorough inspection. "It doesn't look broken; not for lack of trying. What did you hit?"

Harry did not answer, but following his eyes, Hermione saw a portion of his thin wooden headboard that had been cracked off and was now laying of the floor a few feet away.

"Why?" Hermione asked.

"I don't' know," Harry answered. "I just … I felt like breaking something."

Getting up from the floor, Hermione retrieved her bag and removed some Merci's Mend. Taking a small portion in her fingers, she then massaged it gently into the damaged skin of Harry's hand.

"We're all feeling it, Harry," she said. "But you can't go off smashing things every time it washes to the surface. You need to control it … Or it will control you."

An image of the Room of Requirement flooded Hermione's mind. Darkened and in disrepair, she stood across from a clouded figure bathed in illuminated mist and shadow.

" _Passion and control … There must be a balance …"_

"Hermione?" Harry said.

With a sharp flinch and shake of her head, Hermione snapped out of her momentary daze as the voice's echoes faded into silence.

"Are you all right?" Harry went on.

"Yes, of course," Hermione said, laughing off her momentary lapse.

Harry's hand closed over Hermione's. She glanced down at the letters carved into his flesh and, again, it seemed wrong. For all she tried, she could not make sense of it. But his hand, those scars … It was wrong.

"Listen," Harry said with soft sincerity. "You don't have to be the one taking care of us all the time. I know what you're going through."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"What I mean is we all left people behind," Harry said. "It's okay to be upset about it."

Hermione pulled free from Harry, walked to her bed, and sat upon the moderately comfortable stuffed mattress with a longing sigh. She thought of her parents, no doubt getting ready to set off on another glorious day of warm weather, sun, and freedom from the pain and chaos surrounding their daughter. There was no doubt she missed them. But it was not something she carried with her, and certainly not what was eating away at her more and more as time moved on.

"They're better off where they are," she said. "As far away from me as possible. It's safer that way."

"I'm not talking about your parents, Hermione," Harry clarified. After being met with little more than silence and an awkward stare, he continued cautiously. "What I'm trying to say is I'm here if you need to talk."

Another silence fell between the two. Hermione wanted to respond, but found herself unable to come up with the words to do so, both her thoughts and tongue twisted beyond her control for reasons beyond her grasp. Why had Harry's offer to be a shoulder upon which to lay her worries and fears instill such a sinking sensation within her heart? It made as much sense as anything else that had happened of late.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione finally offered in a far meeker tone than she had intended.

Harry nodded in return, looking as though he wished to say something, but no words escaped his lips. He then got up, dusted his clothes off, and exited the tent to join Ron as he sat watch over their camp.

Lying down and resting her head upon her pillow, Hermione glanced out through the entrance to their tent, watching the boys as they engaged in quiet conversation. It was a simple conversation, she assumed. Little more than a volley of words to liven up the evening a bit after what the trio had been through these past several days.

As Ron leaned over towards Harry, whispering back and forth whilst daring to let a smile wash over his ginger features, the Horcrux around his neck dangled forward, catching the moonlight and reflecting it off in a circular pattern. It almost appeared as if it were a small, yet beautiful, silver ring hung round his neck versus the dark and torn soul of Lord Voldemort.

As she watched the two, Hermione felt a sudden urge to join them. More specifically, to join Ron. Of all things Hermione had felt since she left her home, this sensation seemed most out of place. But Hermione could not bury the desire. As the Horcrux continued to swing back and forth around Ron's neck, the silly silver ring appearing and disappearing with each turn into the moonlight, Ron suddenly seemed different. Hermione wished to be near him, to feel his touch.

In a mixture of desire, confusion, and sickening disgust, Hermione turned her head towards to the wall, closing her eyes and wishing for nothing more than to drift to sleep. The soft gentle sounds of nature blanketed the surrounding area. And in her mind, somewhere buried deep within her subconscious, Hermione's stranger awaited her. While she appreciated Harry's attempt at comfort, the only true comfort she needed was held within her stranger's strong and enveloping embrace.

If only it were that simple.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Hunter Hunted

_Look at that! Another post already, and it hasn't even been two weeks. Although, admittedly, I cheated a bit on this one. I was working on this and the previous chapter simultaneously, as they did not intersect in regards to characters. Even so, I hope this makes up for the unforgivable amount of time between chapter 5 and chapter 6 ... At least a little bit ... Maybe?_

 _Enjoy ..._

 _\- Chapter Seven -_

 _The Hunter Hunted_

Time went by and nothing changed. Tanzar and his brood remained in hiding, and Killian's patience began to run thin. He started to question his decision to let Quintus live. Had he told Tanzar of Killian's attack as he had been instructed? He certainly did not seem eager to do so. In truth, Killian had presented him with an insurmountable obstacle. Worlds would collide if he were to reveal what had happened.

Regardless, Killian knew he would not be able to follow through with his threat on the Death Eater's cousin. The inept wizards who had been previously employed as his guard were certainly replaced by a much higher standard now. Even without this realization, it was not a path that Killian wished to pursue.

He spent previous several days in a rundown shack of an inn. It lacked every luxury imaginable, as well as several general necessities such as hot and cold running water and glass in the windows. Still, it served its purpose. It was a place where a person could go on undetected. A place where no one would find you unless said person was actually looking.

The sun set, basking the room in the pale light of the full moon that hung silently in the night sky. He should sleep, but his thoughts were racing. Sleep had escaped him for several nights now. His body ached for rest, but his mind would not relent. On this night, however, the quiet air was interrupted by voices coming from another room down the hall.

Ordinarily, it would not be odd to hear voices. It was an inn, after all. But Killian knew that there were no other rooms rented in this wing. He had specifically requested as such and paid a premium for the solitude. He got up from his bed, grabbed his staff, and cautiously entered the hall.

Voices. Whispers. Familiar.

He made his way towards the room from whence these unwelcomed sounds originated, reached for the doorknob, and after a moment's hesitation, flung the door open. Inside, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan spun around, nearly jumping out of their skin as Killian stared them down, his staff at the ready.

"Bleeding Christ, man!" Lee exclaimed.

Killian glanced among the trio. "Fred? George?"

"Scared the wits out of us, Finn!" Fred gasped, grabbing at his chest.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing here?" George asked.

Killian stared awkwardly at the startled threesome for a moment, words escaping him. The sight of the Weasleys filled him with a complex mix of euphoria and utter confusion. It took several seconds before he snapped out of it and lowered his staff.

"What am I …" he began and then stopped. "What are _you_ doing here?" he finally asked incredulously.

"Broadcasting," Fred explained with a gesture toward Lee, who had returned to assembling what appeared to be some form of radio equipment and antenna.

"Broadcasting?" Killian was even more perplexed than before.

"Yeah," Fred answered. "Put the whole Wheezes business on hold for a bit."

"Pirating radio stations now," George added as if there was absolutely nothing abnormal about such actions.

"Figured you'd be gone somewhere," Fred said. "With your brother-in-law or something. Figured that's why you sent the letter about Hermione."

" _I'll be away for a while_ ," George recited in jesting fashion. " _Please look after Hermione … and don't speak of me_. Vitally important and all that. Sparing her feelings, eh, Finn?"

"Something like—What happened to your ear?" Killian exclaimed, suddenly noticing the gaping hole in the side of George's head.

"What, this?" George addressed casually, gesturing towards the area where his ear should have been. "Got _Snape-ified_."

A knot arose from the pit of Killian's stomach. "Snape did that?"

"Yeah, got me just outside Grimmauld Place," George answered.

"When we were moving Harry," Fred added. "What's with the walking stick?" he went on. "You got a limp or something?"

Lee Jordan glanced over at Killian's staff and a glazed look suddenly fell over his face. He began to fumble through his belongings, coming up with an old issue of the Daily Prophet. He skimmed through an article on the front page. "I don't believe it."

"Believe what, mate?" Fred asked.

" _Nothing is known about the dark intruder that laid waste to several sections the home of Quintus Brantyn, cousin of reputed Death Eater Romulus Tanzar, suspect in the Finn Massacre_ ," Lee read. " _Three individuals in the employ of the local socialite were also injured in the attack._ _The intruder has been described as lean in stature, dark hair, wearing a long, black coat, and brandishing a silver-topped staff …_ Bet you got a longcoat in your room, don't ya, Finn?" he concluded as he put the paper down.

At once, all eyes in the room fell upon Killian.

"Didn't pay much mind, honestly," Lee went on. "People were saying it looked staged. Like maybe he was looking for attention. You know how rich folk can be. But those bodyguards were bloodied up good. No doubt there. So something happened somewhere."

Killian did his best to remain unknowing in his expression, but even he could not suppress the hint of a devilish grin. It appeared Quintus had overcome the insurmountable obstacle and discovered a way after all.

"Going to be away for a while, were you?" Fred asked. "Have you gone mad?"

"Absolutely loony! _Don't speak of me_ ," George stopped short, contemplating. "Come to mention it … _Hermione_ never spoke of _you_. Not a single word."

"That's right," Fred agreed with sudden realization. "And normally she won't shut up about you. On and on she goes."

"You didn't ..." George started, seeing the guilt in Killian's eyes. "You _did_! You fixed her with a charm, didn't you?"

"A Memory Charm?" Fred pressed on. "Bloody hell, Finn! Are you even any good at them?"

Killian sighed with repressed anguish. "Time will tell."

"But it's Hermione," Fred started out. "How could you?"

"I didn't have a choice," Killian explained. "She would have followed me. You know she would. It was all I could do to … to protect her," his voice tapered off as he finished. Looking ashamed, he turned away.

Fred and George approached Killian. Fred put his hand on Killian's shoulder in a vain attempt to console him.

"Look, Finn," he began. "We can't even begin to understand what you're going through."

"Not at all," George agreed.

"Why didn't you just tell us?" Fred asked. "We could have helped."

"You know we're there for you, mate," George added.

"I know," Killian conceded. "That's why I didn't tell you. It seems as though we all have our own battles to fight … And this one isn't yours."

Fred smiled, patting Killian on the back. "George was right, you are stubborn as a hernhock."

"I'm not stubborn," Killian argued with the faintest trace of a smile. "I'm just …"

"Rigid?" Lee offered.

"Inflexible?" Fred suggested.

"Unyielding?" George pondered aloud. "Like stubborn, only fancier."

"All right, all right," Killian conceded. "I get it."

"What about Harry?" George asked, redirecting the conversation back to the original issue. "Did you mention it to him?"

"I sent him a letter as well," Killian answered. "He should have received it as soon as he arrived at Hogwarts."

Fred and George looked at each other. Killian immediately saw that something was wrong. He could also see that neither of the Weasley twins wanted to be the one to say it.

"What is it?" he asked, his adrenaline instinctively increasing.

"Um ..." Fred stammered, "… you haven't been reading the Prophet lately, have you?"

Killian admitted that he had not. Knowing that the pages were inundated with articles about the murder of his family had kept him away from such periodicals. He had the actual memories ingrained in his head. He did not need the reminders.

"Harry's not exactly at Hogwarts," George said weakly.

"Not _exactly_?" Killian asked.

"Well," Fred clarified. "Not at all actually. They never went."

" _They_?" Killian asked on, his pulse now pounding.

"Yeah," Fred explained, his face twisting uncomfortably. "Harry, Ron … Hermione."

"Don't worry," George assured before Killian could react to Fred's revelation.

"Where are they?" Killian asked, suddenly focused and alert.

"They're safe," Fred insisted. "Safer than they'd be at Hogwarts anyway. What with Snape being inserted as headmaster."

Killian narrowed his eyes at the sound of his former mentor's name. Headmaster at Hogwarts. Fires raged deep within him, but he forced them away. No need for it at the moment. Save it for when the time calls.

"Relax, Finn," Fred went on. "They're not looking for trouble."

"Unlike you," George added. "I'm betting you were baiting Tanzar with that attack on his cousin."

"Very clever. How's that playing out?" Fred complimented.

"Not well," Killian admitted, his mind still distracted with thoughts of Hermione outside the safety of Hogwarts. And Harry. Harry doesn't know. "Not well at all."

"Well, if it's publicity you're looking for," Lee offered. "I can help you with that, mate. We're on," he added as he motioned for Fred and George to come over. " _All right all you listeners out there, it's time for another edition of Potter Watch. For tonight's program we have a very special guest. You all know him as the mysterious stranger who laid waste to a haughty socialite's estate just to prove he could get to anyone. But to everyone else, he's the sole survivor of the atrocities that took place on the Finn family estate_."

" _Death Eaters beware, Killian Finn is on the hunt and has you in his crosshairs_ ," Fred continued on cue.

" _His silver-topped Staff of Reckoning primed and ready_ ," George added.

" _Tanzar's quaking and his brood is shaking, 'cause this hunter's got teeth!_ " Lee went on. " _Anything you'd like to say to all of the listeners out in the airwaves_?" Lee asked, looking to Killian, who, stunned by what he was witnessing, simply stared back with a mixed expression of shock and uncertainty. " _A man of few words people … But don't let that fool you, he carries a large stick_."

" _Look out, Tanzar!_ " Fred offered.

" _Your silent stalker is lurking in the shadows!_ " George added in a foreboding tone.

" _So, moving on_ ," Jordan said, bringing the program back on topic. " _Time for this night's Potter Watch …_ "

Killian stood in silent thought as Fred, George, and Jordan went on with their broadcast of vague and, most likely, misleading information about what was going on in the wizarding community and the whereabouts of the elusive Harry Potter. The show, while entertaining, seemed to be nothing more than a way to let people know that Harry was still alive, at large, and safe. This, however, gave Killian little reassurance.

The night moved on. Lee Jordan and the Weasley Twins finished their broadcast and began to pack up. Pirating radio stations with a floating broadcast regarding Harry was something of a risky business so, unfortunately, there was little time to visit.

"If you need anything," Fred said, placing a friendly grip on Killian's shoulder.

"Anything," George reiterated.

"I know," Killian said.

With that, Killian bid the three of them farewell as they Disapparated from the room, leaving him to his own secluded thoughts. It had been a bittersweet reunion. While it was wonderful to see Fred and George, at the same time it was a reminder of just how much things had changed. And, of course, the news that Harry, Hermione, and Ron were wandering around the countryside … That was a tension that would not go away.

Even as he made his way back to his room, his mind was working on a way to remedy the situation. She was not safe. He knew it. If they were looking for Harry, they were looking for her as well. The revelation had left him distracted. Too distracted to think about what was at hand. Too distracted to notice the stranger lurking in the shadows as he entered his room. Too distracted to see it coming.

A jet stream of red light blasted him square in the chest, sending him crashing into the far wall and knocking the plaster from the ceiling. His staff fell from his hand and rolled far from reach as his body slumped to the floor. It was a crushing blow, but he was still conscious. He looked up, trying to focus, and saw the hairless, scarred outline of Kane emerge from the corner. The abomination drew down on Killian, his twisted grin beaming in the moonlight seeping through the glassless window.

"Where had you gone, little puppet?" Kane sang as he approached with psychotic malice. "Looking, looking, but Kane has found you."

Killian made an attempt to reach for his staff, but was intercepted. Kane's next jinx threw Killian into the ceiling and across the room beyond the rickety spring bed in the corner.

"Ah, ah, ahhhhh," the scarred one went on. "Not nice to play that way, little puppet."

Kane lifted his wand, his curse pinning Killian to the wall, compressing his chest with unforgiving pressure. "And not nice to run away." He sneered as he approached Killian, who was grasping at the unseen hands that crushed his lungs and stole his air. "Searched and searched, nothing there. Vanished like smoke. And no one tells, no one tells at all. Where had the little puppet gone?"

Killian's vision began to blur, his head pounding. How had he been so careless, so unprepared?

"Father says nothing," the maniacal wizard continued to taunt. "Sister says nothing … Even when Kane beats her for the puppet's whereabouts. Stubborn, stubborn girl, that one. But Kane takes care of her, he does. Takes good care of her."

His sister …

Gone …

He would see her soon. All of this pain would go away. He waited for it, welcomed it. It would be over before it had even begun. His sister … Her words echoed in his mind. He was a child again, on the grounds of the family estate ... Dueling ... Practicing. Underage wizardry was strictly prohibited outside of Hogwarts. But not in their family. Not in their world.

" _Why aren't you attacking?" the young Killian asked of his sister, who deflected his jinx with dismissive ease._

" _Because you don't pose any threat to me," she answered. "Passion and control, Killian, passion and control."_

" _It's not working," he cried. "I can't do it!"_

" _That's because you're weak, you filthy little squib," his sister taunted._

 _A blast of light exploded from Killian's wand, erupting across the courtyard and hitting his sister square. She raised her wand in defense, but was thrust back into the ivy of the garden maze._

 _He rushed to his sister, fearing for what he had done._

" _Excellent!" she applauded as she pulled herself to her feet. "You're getting stronger, Killian. I'm so proud of you."_

The room around Killian was fading, Kane's face blurring into a haze of crooked yellow teeth among a mass of pale, horrifically scarred features. He was in the Potions lab, sixth year. The tables had been set aside. He was standing across from Professor Snape with his wand at the ready … His professor … His mentor … _Traitor_.

 _"Pain, anger, fire burning within your soul, these are the allies of your attack," Snape instructed. "Control them, and they will serve you. Fail in this, and they will control you."_

 _Killian's eyes were focused and narrowed. He cast his curse as Snape cast his counter. Their energies met in the center of the Potions lab, reverberating through the protective barrier that Snape had cast around them to keep the lab itself from being obliterated. After several seconds parry, Killian relinquished his curse amidst the force of Snape's energies._

" _You have passion," the Potions master gritted. "But you lack control. If it is to be of any proper use to you, you must learn control! Control it!"_

" _Yes, Professor," Killian accepted, his breath heavy and exhausted, fire in his eyes._

He heard a sharp crack in his side. Killian knew at once that his ribs were beginning to give way under the pressure of Kane's curse. It was over. He no longer had the strength to hold his hands to his chest. His head began to slump forward as Kane sneered and snapped his teeth. He had failed. He had fallen without so much as a fight.

Useless …

Weak …

 _Hermione_ …

Her face fluttered through his consciousness. Soon. Very soon. No more pain.

As if reading Killian's thoughts, Kane reached out and grasped Hermione's ring where it hung from Killian's necklace.

"Oh, so very sweet," he jeered. "Kane has not forgotten little puppet's fairer friend, no he has not. So much fun he will have. So much fun indeed. She screams and cries and screams and cries, but Kane has so much fun."

A sudden surge filled Killian as Kane's words reverberated in his ears. Hermione. She was not safe. They knew of her. She was _not_ safe. The pain fell away, replaced by rage. Pure, uncontrolled rage surging from within.

"Poor little puppet. Poor, poor little puppet," Kane continued with a malicious sneer.

It was then that Killian saw it. Kane's wand … The wand that was crushing the life from his very body. It was within reach. In feeling that he was in complete control, the sociopathic sorcerer had allowed himself to get in too close. He _had_ to grab the ring. He _had_ to make the comment. One last taunt before he finished off his victim. It would his downfall. He just did not know it yet.

" _Control it!"_

With a sudden resilience, Killian reached out, barely able to get a weak grasp on the end of Kane's wand. It was all he would need. He countered Kane's curse with vile wizard's own wand. There was an explosion of energy that shattered the wall beside Killian and tossed Kane to the opposite corner of the dismantled room. Killian dove for his staff, ignoring the searing pain he felt in his shattered ribs. Seizing it firmly within his grip, he leapt to his feet just as Kane regained control of his wand and was ready to strike. It did not matter. He swung his staff, the silver orb atop it opening a gash over Kane's left eye. It was not magic. It was physical. It was barbarous. It was retribution.

Kane fell to the floor, clutching his head as blood poured through his fingers. In an instant, Killian's curse was upon him, tossing him about the room like a rag doll in the jaws of a rabid animal. The room itself could barely maintain its structural integrity as Tanzar's disciple was savagely pounded into the walls and ceiling with unyielding aggression.

When it was over, Kane fell limp in the center of the room with his wand lying on the floor only a few feet away. In desperation, he weakly reached out for it, only to find his wrist crushed beneath the weight of Killian's heel.

' _How far are you willing to go? …"_

They hunter stood over his prey, his staff drawn upon Kane's hollowed face. "Is this the hand you used to beat my sister?" he asked with an emptiness in his voice that would have sent a chill through the Dark Lord himself.

Kane did not answer, staring up helplessly at his inevitable fate. Death was upon him. It would _not_ be swift.


	8. Chapter 8 - The Serpent's Vow

_So yeah, it's been a bit since my last post ... Again :/ ... Okay, okay, cards on the table. But it's up and ready to go. Not really much else to say, I guess._

 _Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Eight -_

 _The Serpent's Vow_

Killian's eyes burst open, blinded by the early morning light as he stared at what remained of the ceiling in his room. He was lying on the floor, as the bed had been thoroughly destroyed in the previous night's attack. His body ached, but his ribs had healed rather nicely, compliments of the small amount of Merci's Mend Elixir Verity had given him after the scrape he had at Saarla Manor the previous year. Unfortunately, that was the last of the Elixir. Any more breaks, and Killian would have to rely on biological healing. Very long. Very painful. He would have to be more careful.

As he dragged himself to his feet, he got his first full glimpse of the destruction that had taken place only a few hours before. Barely maintaining its structural integrity, it was remarkable the room still stood at all. The framework of the walls was almost completely exposed, and several of the load-bearing joists had been severely damaged.

Gingerly, Killian limped over to grab his longcoat, stepping over the body of Kane, now covered with a throw rug saturated in coagulated blood. Killian could have left the night before. He _should_ have left. But he had stayed. Something within him wanted to be in the presence of his victim, challenging anyone to come and witness the results of his actions.

Covering Kane's body was no show of respect for the dead. Killian was simply disgusted by the sight of him, dead or alive. His corpse, however, would send a message far greater than the one Quintus had delivered. He would be the hunter, not the hunted.

Now that Kane was taken care of, Killian had more important things with which to be concerned. Hermione was not at Hogwarts. Furthermore, Harry had not received Killian's letter. Worse still, Death Eaters all across the continent were, no doubt, searching for them. Hermione was a capable young witch. Harry was capable, as well. Even Ron was far more formidable than often given credit. Still, it would only be a matter of time. Simple numbers. They did not play well in their favor.

But Killian had a plan. There was one person he knew he could turn to no matter the situation. One person who could help. One person with whom he held a trust beyond all others. And if all worked out as planned, perhaps Killian could also handle another concern that had fallen upon him as well.

. . .

Killian watched in the shadows as Draco paced back and forth across the front of Malfoy Manor. He had to be certain Draco was alone. Wallowing in isolation or not, Draco appeared to be lost in thought. Or perhaps trying not to think at all.

When he believed they had sufficient privacy, Killian Stunned the pallid Slytherin and dragged him beyond the brush that bordered the property. Once there, Draco sputtered to his feet, drawing his wand and turning on his adversary.

"You're alive!" he exclaimed in a stifled whisper, lowering his wand and embracing his lifelong friend. "After what happened … No one knew where you were … Bloody hell … I ... I'm so sorry …"

"It's all right, Draco," Killian assured, feeling a sense of warmth being around what amounted to family. "I'm fine."

"But your parents," Draco went on. "Your sister …"

"I know," Killian said, having already mentally distance himself from the emotional scars placed on him the night his family was slaughtered. To dwell upon it would be a sign of weakness.

"Tanzar's an animal," Draco spat with wretched disgust. Although Killian wondered if Draco would have shared the same thought if such a thing had befallen a Muggle family. "Did you hear about his cousin?"

"Yes," Killian answered with a distant disinterest in his tone.

Draco glanced at Killian's staff. The etched silver orb clutched within the grasp of a raven's talon.

"You …" he said, his voice cracking as his eyes widened in sudden realization. "Killian, have you gone mad? Do you know what's going to happen when people realize that you're attacking Death Eaters?"

"Quintus Brantyn is not a Death Eater," Killian clarified.

"But Tanzar is," Draco pointed out rather rhetorically. "He's a wallop of a git, but he's still a Death Eater! And anyone with half a wit is going to figure out why you went after his pompous pup of a cousin!"

"I appreciate your concern—" Killian began.

"To hell with my concern!" Draco asserted. "Killian, they'll kill you!"

"Perhaps," Killian admitted. "But before they do, there a few things that require attending."

Draco appeared completely perplexed at the manner of calm that Killian was presenting. His eyes stared on blankly as his mouth dropped open several times. But all that came out were choked syllables vaguely resembling some form of simplistic words.

"Require attending?" he finally said. "What could you possibly have that requires attending right now? Aside from yourself, that is? I rather figured that was something you'd already taken into consideration. I mean—"

"Not me, Draco," Killian interrupted. "You."

"Me?" Draco choked. "What about me?"

"I need you to do something for me," Killian said with a subtle, yet somehow overwhelmingly present, air of conviction.

"I don't know what I could possibly do for you," Draco admitted, both withdrawn and unassured. "I've been locked up in here like a filthy Mudblood convict for months."

"Potter's not at Hogwarts," Killian explained.

"Well, that's old news," Draco scoffed. "Half the country's looking for him."

"I know," Killian said. "And it's only a matter of time before he's caught."

"You've got that right." Draco agreed, his lips curling into a malicious sneer. "Potter's not the brightest of them all, you know. He'll foul up soon enough."

"Very likely," Killian conceded, albeit reluctantly. "If he's captured—"

"When," Draco corrected.

"Either way. Where will they take him?"

"Here, of course," Draco answered. "Been turned into a headquarters of sorts. Bloody pain, to tell you the truth. Why? What difference does it make to you?"

"Hermione is with Harry."

Draco fell silent. There was an immediate understanding, but neither of them knew exactly how to say it.

"Killian, I …" Draco stammered.

"I can't protect her, Draco," Killian admitted somberly. "Not anymore. I don't even know where she is, and even if I looked … You know the odds of me finding her first."

"But what can I do?" Draco asked helplessly.

"They'll be brought here," Killian answered. "It's practically inevitable. You said so yourself."

"And?" Draco asked hesitantly.

"And when this happens," Killian answered, "I need you to protect her for me."

"Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" Draco said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Me? Protect Hermione? That means protecting _Potter_ as well, doesn't it?"

"Probably," Killian admitted. "Please, Draco … You're the only one I can turn to; the only one I trust."

"Trust?" Draco laughed coldly, dropping his head in shame. "After everything that's happened, you still trust me? That's rich."

Killian placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. "My trust in you has never faltered. We're pawns. Always have been. Used and discarded by those whose ambitions far exceed our own. But I stand by you until the end, Draco. Whatever it brings."

Draco looked up at Killian with loss and regret in his eyes. "That could be coming sooner than you think," he said solemnly, before looking away once again. "How did it come to this? This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. We were all just students."

"We were," Killian agreed. "And now we're not. All we can do now is take it from here. Will you do this for me?"

"You know I will," Draco vowed. "But I'm doing it for _you_ , not for _them_ ," he quickly clarified.

"I know," Killian said, smiling.

"Where will you go now?" Draco asked. "Tanzar's bound to be looking for you. You're marked for sure."

"First off," Killian explained. "I need to have a word with your father."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Draco said quickly. "My aunt's here. She's a bit off, you know. More so now than usual. Might take shot at you just for walking through the door."

"Then I'll be sure to duck as I cross the threshold," Killian teased with an arrogant grin. He then paused, glancing over the landscape. "Is _he_ here?" he asked with sudden disdain.

"No," Draco answered.

No sooner did Draco's reply leave his lips than Killian began to make his way across the front of the Manor. Sighing heavily, he Draco quickly followed. He knew it did not matter what he said, Killian was going to go inside, with or without him.

Together, the two Slytherins approached the entrance of Malfoy Manor. After a moment's hesitation, mostly for Draco's sake, they entered the dark and uninviting abode.

. . .

Inside, Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix were engaged in idle banter in the parlor. Mostly, it was Narcissa and Bellatrix conversing while Lucius simply sat in his throne-esque mahogany chair, his head resting on his fingertips, which were massaging his temple and smoothing his brow. While looking quite a bit worse for the wear, he still maintained an air of dignity about him.

"Killian!" Narcissa exclaimed as she saw the boys standing in the doorway.

"I saw him outside," Draco lied. "Thought it would be better if he came in."

Narcissa rushed to her feet and embraced Killian. Lucius, snapping from his trance, looked on with suppressed surprise.

"Are you all right?" Narcissa asked as she looked Killian over. "You've had us all worried sick!"

"I'm fine," Killian assured, his eyes on Lucius, who returned a curt nod.

"Well, well," Bellatrix sang as she strode over with a skip in her step. "Killian Finn, is it? I've heard so much of you from little Draco. Tragic what happened to your _mummy_ and _daddy_ ," she went on, "and sissy too. Pity. But don't worry," she added as she ran her finger across Killian's cheek, tracing his chin. "You're amongst friends now."

Killian pulled his head away and glared at Bellatrix.

"Now that's not very friendly," the Dark witch scoffed.

"Leave the boy alone, Bella," Lucius said from his chair.

"All I'm saying," Bellatrix explained as she turned and sauntered back to the sofa, "is that I thought it was rude. Such poor manners in children these days."

"Please, sit down, Killian," Narcissa offered. "You look awful."

"Yes," Lucius agreed, gesturing to the chair beside him. "Sit down."

"I'm afraid I don't have time," Killian apologized.

"Have pressing matters, do you?" Bellatrix goaded.

"I need to speak with you, sir," Killian explained to Lucius, ignoring Bellatrix's comment.

"So, speak," Lucius waved on.

Killian hesitated for a moment. In front of everyone? Did it really matter? Would it change anything?

Bellatrix leaned forward, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Come, come," she prodded. "Do tell."

The very sight of the brutal and demented sorceress disgusted Killian beyond reason. More than disgusted. It was like a sickness burning through his soul with every breath he took in her presence. He knew the woman she had been as well had the woman she had become. It was an unforgiving path littered with victims, her very self being counted within those numbers.

"It's about Romulus Tanzar," Killian finally said. "And his brood."

"What of them?" Lucius asked rhetorically as a look of concern slowly crept across Draco's face.

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" Bellatrix laughed, pointing out what everyone already knew. "The boy wants revenge. How dreadfully wonderful! Want to know where they are, do you? And what will you do then? Silly little boy wants to play grown-up games."

"Killian," Lucius said, doing his best to sound compassionate. "Sit down. Let's discuss this. There's no need for rash—"

"I know you know where they are," Killian interrupted. "Or in the very least, you know where I can find the information."

"Killian," Narcissa joined in uncomfortably, but Killian was not to be deterred.

"I will be looking for them, regardless of your help," he explained firmly. "It's only a matter of how much of a disadvantage you wish for me to have."

The parlor fell into a sudden and awkwardly uncomfortable silence as Lucius and Killian stared at each other. Killian could see that Lucius understood the seriousness of this avowal. But struggled to accept it just the same. Bellatrix, however, reclined back on the sofa, giggling with amusement. So much so as to make Narcissa appear uncomfortable with her sister's antics.

"It matters not who knows where Tanzar is," Bellatrix chortled. "We still wouldn't just give him up. He and his band of freak show attractions are still Death Eaters, regardless of what they might have done to your little family. And the Dark Lord wishes—"

"I don't give a damn what Voldemort wishes!" Killian's emotions gave way to uncontrolled anger. "I am not one of his pathetic little followers!"

Bellatrix leapt from the sofa, drawing her wand in the process.

"How dare you!" she shouted as a maniacal glare washed over her face. "Churlish, insignificant …" she continued before her words were drowned out by the blast of her curse now careening towards Killian.

Killian deflected the curse and returned one of his own, having completely lost sight of everything around him. All he saw was Bellatrix … His adversary … His prey.

The Dark Lord's most loyal minion was strong, casting off Killian's curse with relative ease. But he was focused. The world around him seemed to slow as he anticipated the witch's actions and countered with precision. Flashes of light and explosions bathed the room as the duelers' powerful attacks ricocheted off the walls and ceilings.

"Enough!" Lucius shouted as he stood from his chair and put an arm between Killian and Bellatrix, their respective weapons of choice drawn upon each other's throats. "Bella! Stand down!"

"He stands down first," Bellatrix insisted, her eyes still locked on Killian.

Seeing no viable alternative, Killian hesitated for a moment, brooding over his move, before slowly lowering his staff.

"You're not on my list," he affirmed, his fiery glare remaining.

"Lucky for _you_ ," Bellatrix shot back as she snapped her wand away, twirled towards the sofa, and sat in dramatic fashion.

"Relax," Lucius insisted, placing his hand on Killian's shoulder.

"Oh, just give him Kane," Bellatrix offered with a flippant wave. "That pocked lunatic will make short work of the whelp. Problem solved."

Killian reached within his longcoat, removed a bloodied scarred hand, and tossed it crossly at Bellatrix's feet.

"I have no need for Kane's whereabouts."

Bellatrix's eyes widened in euphoric ecstasy as she looked upon the severed hand at her feet. Now luridly licking her upper lip, she returned her gaze upon Killian.

"Ooooh … My, my, my," she groaned as her hand caressed her neck and slid down between her breasts. "You are a dark one, aren't you? Exacting and vicious," she punctuated as she bit at the air, hissing.

"For goodness sake!" Narcissa gasped, her hand over her mouth. "Draco, take that away!"

Draco appeared both shocked and disgusted by his mother's request, but reluctantly walked over and picked the rotting hand from the floor between his thumb and forefinger, casting a resentful glare at Killian.

"Place it in my room, won't you dear," Bellatrix instructed. "I think I should like it as a memento."

"I told you she was a bit off," Draco whispered to Killian as he passed and headed out of the parlor.

"I think we should have a moment alone," Lucius said to Killian, directing his eyes towards Narcissa and Bellatrix.

"Oh, please," Bellatrix dismissed. "You can't order me about … _Wandless_ as you are."

"Even so," Lucius responded in a politely threatening manner, "this is still my home and you will do as I say."

"Bella," Narcissa appealed to her sister while heading towards the door.

"Oh, all right," Bellatrix resigned as she got up and joined Narcissa. "But only because I prefer your company by comparison to what's left of your husband. And as for you," she added as she blew Killian a kiss from across the parlor. "Miss you already."

With that, Narcissa and Bellatrix left, leaving Lucius and Killian alone in the parlor. Almost immediately, Killian loosened up, his muscles having been tense for so long they had begun to ache. He still had not quite fully recovered from Kane's attack, and his body was letting him know.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, dropping his head shamefully. "I didn't mean for—"

"Don't apologize," Lucius interjected. "It is a sign of weakness." He then softened up with a familiar smile. "Aside from that, you were not out of place. Had I the notion, I would have done it myself."

"But what I said," Killian went on. "I didn't mean …"

"We are all under pressure," Lucius excused. "Words are often misspoken in such times."

The truth was that Killian had not misspoken at all. He truly detested Death Eaters and everything they stood for. He saw them as nothing more than weak and dismal followers looking for someone's wing to hide under. That aside, he did not wish to insult Lucius and Narcissa. They had never been anything short of kind to him. It was complicated. Everything was complicated.

"What did she mean by _wandless_?" Killian asked.

"She is insolent," Lucius answered. "It was merely an attempt provoke me. A pathetic one at that."

Killian could see the prevarication in Lucius' explanation, but did not wish to further embarrass him, deciding instead to leave it be and not press any further.

"Can I do nothing to dissuade your decision?" Lucius asked.

"No, sir," Killian answered honestly. "Nothing."

"Believe me when I say that you do not wish to take this path," Lucius went on. "The consequences it can bring are beyond anything that you have considered, I can assure you."

"I cannot let it go," Killian admitted. "I have to follow this through."

"You are not seeing clearly," Lucius pleaded. "You are blinded by your anger. Killian, your father … He was more than an associate … He was a friend … A very good friend. I mourn his loss more than you will ever know." He paused suddenly, as if to regain his composure. "You have always been like a son. Please … Stay here. Let me protect you."

"I have often looked to you for guidance," Killian said, feeling as though his heart was being wrenched further from his chest with his every word, "and I have always felt welcomed in your home. But you have a son. He needs your protection more than I."

Lucius nodded in reluctant agreement. They were at an impasse. Killian was going to pursue Tanzar with or without Lucius' help. That had become immensely clear.

"You are stubborn," Lucius admitted. "But you are strong, as well. Your father would have been proud."

Crossing the room, Lucius leaned on the mantle, staring at his weary and worn expression in the mirror that hung above.

"I honestly cannot tell you where Tanzar is," he admitted with a sigh. "That is not information of which I am currently privy. Barabbas, Vetis, Verin … There I can help you. But do not underestimate." He turned back and approached Killian, placing his hands on the defiant Slytherin's shoulders. "These are not individuals to be taken lightly. They will not hesitate …"

"I understand," Killian assured.

Lucius glanced Killian over, his expression remorseful. "I know you do, Killian," he said with a forced smile, more saddened than expressive. "I know you do."


	9. Chapter 9 - The Colossus

_Ok, so I think I'm back into a better flow. Hopefully, at worst, I will be able to get a new chapter up each week ... Hopefully more. At any rate, this is one of my favorite chapters in this story. For no story related reason. More because it introduces a character that was based off a real person in my life, both in appearance and partly in personality. So for personal reasons, I love this chapter._

 _But I digress ... Moving on ... Again, hopefully my posting schedule will be more consistent moving forward. For now, I hope you enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Nine -_

 _The Colossus_

Hermione stared out at the darkness surrounding their camp. The chill in the air encouraged her to wrap herself in a warm woolen blanket Mrs. Weasley had knitted her as a birthday gift several years prior. Even with its embrace, the bite in the night's winds was enveloping.

Harry, too, sat outside in the elements, glancing over a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that had been discarded by a local subscriber. The, now standard, Barrier and Cloaking Spells were in place, so they were safe from view. Perhaps they both just wanted to get out of the confines of their tent. As spacious and comfortable as it was, of late it felt almost like an overwhelming and suffocating bastille of canvas and wood.

"Did you read this?" Harry asked as he perused an article on the front page.

"No," Hermione admitted without looking.

"They found the body of some rogue Death Eater," Harry explained as he read on. "Name was Kane."

"Kane who?" Hermione asked, seemingly more out of politeness than curiosity.

"Doesn't say," Harry answered. "Just Kane. He was found in a dilapidated wing at some shoddy inn," he went on. "Says the room was nearly demolished, his body crushed and torn, one of his hands missing altogether. It appears that the body was in the room, under a throw rug, for weeks before it was discovered."

"That's disgusting," Hermione scoffed with a sickened grimace, still staring off in the distance.

Harry paused for a second, eyeing Hermione as she gazed aimlessly into the shadow mists surrounding their campsite. "Goes on to say this Kane was often seen in the company of another Death Eater … Romulus Tanzar." He paused again, waiting for some form of reaction. Hermione offered none. "Both are suspects in the Finn murders."

"So he wasn't much of a loss, then," Hermione dismissed with a shiver as she wrapped her blanket more firmly around her shoulders.

"Is that …" Harry began and then stopped, feeling his own heart compressing with suppressed anguish. But regardless of his own emotions, he could see that Hermione was a thousand miles away, clearly distracted and unfocused. "Is that all you have to say?"

"What more were you looking for?" Hermione asked, still dismissive in her tone, albeit appearing more strained as she began to massage her forehead.

"I don't know," Harry answered, his own voice wavering. "So none of this means _anything_ to you? Nothing at all?"

"What?" Hermione asked, somewhat redirecting her attention to Harry, but still obviously distracted.

"I asked you," Harry punctuated, "whether any of this means anything to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione answered. "Should it?"

"The Finns," Harry pressed on. "The name means _nothing_ to you?"

"I ... No ... Not particularly," Hermione admitted, shaking her head as if she were trying to toss something from her mind. "Were they affiliated with Hogwarts?"

"You could say that," Harry answered, his concern now on the rise. "If by _affiliated_ , you mean students."

"Students?" Hermione asked, looking completely at a loss. "What House?"

Harry stared at Hermione, now at a loss in how to proceed. She had been acting odd for quite some time. Nothing particularly obvious to anyone who did not know her, but immensely clear to Harry. Something was wrong. But Harry could never have fathomed the source of her emotional distance.

"Doesn't matter," he answered, closing his newspaper and lowering his head. "Damn …" he whispered to himself. "Damn, damn, damn …"

"What?" Hermione asked, grimacing as she continued to massage her head.

"Nothing," Harry lied.

Hermione, visibly disheveled, got up and headed towards the tent.

"I don't feel well," she said as she passed Harry. "I think I need to lie down."

"Sure, get some rest," Harry agreed as she entered the tent. He then glanced back at the _Daily Prophet's_ front-page article, a picture of Kane's rotting corpse consuming a large portion of the page with the Finn family name being repeated often within the article below.

He then reached down and grabbed a copy of the Quibbler he had scavenged earlier as well. The date of the publication was difficult to discern as most of the front cover had been torn away. However, based on the articles contained within, it appeared that it was from the late summer or early fall. In it there was article describing the search for Romulus Tanzar and several Dark wizards known to travel within his circle in connection with the death of three members of the Finn family. It was a tragedy that, somehow, did not make the pages of the _Daily Prophet_.

There was very little in the area of details surrounding the crime. The date, location, and other such information was almost entirely absent. Details or not, however, it changed very little. And Hermione's somewhat erratic behavior, behavior she had hidden well for the most part, suddenly made sense.

Now, however, Harry needed to decide what to do next. Hermione was his best friend. Harry had, on more than one occasion, offered threats of physical harm to those whom would hurt her. Even Killian had, at one point in time, been the recipient of such avowal. It was clear that Hermione was hurting. Something had to be done of it. Unlike his clear for straightforward threats, however, Harry knew this situation was far more complicated.

. . .

Once in the tent, Hermione made her way over to her bed and fell upon it, curling up and pressing her eyes shut. For months she had felt a horrible emptiness that would not go away. Worse, she had yet to place the source.

Ron had left, having fought it out with Harry and surrendering to juvenile sulking and retreat. Her anger towards him knew no end, fighting in vain to forgive his actions and abandonment.

In truth, Hermione knew she was being unfair. Wearing the Horcrux had caused enormous stress upon its bearer, no matter which of the three's neck it adorned. Ron was no different. Had it simply driven him to his breaking point? Were his words and actions truly his own, or nothing more than the corrosive magic held within the Dark talisman bleeding through and infecting his soul?

Regardless, Hermione pain has increased tenfold since his departure. Perhaps it was that. Perhaps she missed … _Ron_? The thought seemed silly.

As she lay there, Hermione recalled her dream from the previous night. It was nothing particularly new. It was just another in a long series of nocturnal fantasies that had played out in her subconscious as she slept over the last several months. At first they seemed pleasant; almost welcomed. But lately, they had taken a strange and emotionally confusing turn.

" _Can I ask you something?"_

" _I'm sure you can ask me a great many things …"_

Just the sound of his voice was so comfortably soothing, even though her pulse was racing, her heart fearful to even ask the question, let alone hear the answer. Still, she needed to know. More than know, she needed to hear him say it.

" _Is this just an illusion?"_

Her head was on his shoulder as they sat aside each other in some desolate indescript area devoid of people. The anxiety enveloping her increased exponentially as second after second passed by without reply. She wanted to look up, to see him, to touch his face and lose herself in the moment. But against all reason, she could not, he head like lead weight pressed against his shoulder. With every bit of constitutions she could muster, she forced herself up, turning towards her stranger. In that moment, he became clear.

" _I love you, Hermione …"_

" _Ron?"_

There he was, sitting on the sofa across from the hearth in Gryffindor's common room, rubbing his eyes and leaning back as she sat on the floor with an essay in her hands. In that moment, she awoke, feeling as though her heart had collapsed under an immense weight. All of this time, all of these moments, all of these emotions … Had it been truly been Ron all along?

While she had felt a bit off even prior to Ron's departure, she had simply cast it off as stress. Since he had left, however, her mental anguish had intensified so much as to make her feel physically ill. Ron? It made no sense to her, but what else could it be?

Even just now, as Harry went on about the massacre of the Finn family, she became distracted. Her grief began to swell. She felt as if she was choking, struggling to breath in air thick as water. She wanted it to go away; she _needed_ it to go away. She could not go on like this. She felt lost and exposed for reasons she could not clarify. The only solace she now found was in her dreams, but she could not sleep forever. And with last evening's revelation, did such a solace exist even there?

Ron? It made no sense, no sense at all. What was wrong with her?

Quiet footsteps interrupted Hermione's moment. Perhaps mercifully so. She looked to the entrance and saw Harry standing there with a mixed expression of concern and doubt upon his face.

"Hermione?" he began in a tone matching his expression.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I think …" Harry began and then stopped, balling his fist and glancing between Hermione and the floor.

"Harry?" Hermione asked on, fearing Harry's hesitation and what it may be concealing. "What's wrong?"

Harry looked up, his eyes riddled with doubt. "We need to talk."

. . .

At that very moment, closer than Hermione could have ever imagined had she memory to do so, Killian was again waiting in the shadows. Lucius had given him information, given him direction. To date, it had been nothing more of a game of cat and mouse, each clue leading to a different location. Still, Killian was on the right track. On this night, he was certain that he would find his mark.

He had been held up in his position for several hours outside an old steel mill. The information he had gathered told him that Barabbas often used this abandoned property as a safe haven when he needed to be less than noticeable. For most of the evening, Killian waited in solitude. Recently, however, he became aware of two other individuals making their way about the property.

They were aware of Killian's presence as well, making great efforts to get around him under cover of shadow and catch him off guard. However, Killian noticed them long before they noticed him. He had been tracking them, watching their movements, waiting for the opportune time. Then, when the moment was right, he spun around with an aggressive whirl, drawing down on his two adversaries and finding they had done the same.

"I think it'd be best if you just lowered your—What is that? A _shillelagh_?" the one said before cocking his head, perplexed. "Who in the bloody hell carries a shillelagh? A bit cumbersome, isn't it?"

He was large and broad, not much older than Killian. Clean cut, but not well dressed. The other was a girl, tiny; almost fragile looking, with bright blue eyes, short golden hair, and a soft complexion that glimmered in the moonlight. Her age was harder to place, her size seeming that of a child, but her glare being far too focused and mature.

"I don't believe you're in a position to decide what is best for me," Killian came back, ignoring the observation.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree with you on that," the large one explained. "You see, there's only one reason for someone to be wandering around these parts, skulking about in the shadows."

"Is that right?" Killian asked, narrowing his eyes.

"That's right," he answered. "And we're not very big fans of Dark wizards. Make a habit of turning them in, you see … More or less."

"So you'll be turning me in then?" Killian asked on, a devious grin curling in the corner of his mouth.

"Something like that. You can go easy or we can do this the hard way."

Killian adjusted his footing. "I'm not familiar with easy."

"Bloody hell," the large one groaned, rolling his eyes as he prepared for battle. "Of course you're not."

The night became aglow with flashes of light and streaks of red energy slicing through the air. The young girl was quick, aggressive, and skilled. But she lacked forethought, relying on her speed and agility to make up for it. Her companion, on the other hand, was not as adept with his offense. In reality, he would amount to little more than a Squib, were it not for his extraordinary defensive magic.

 _To know your enemy is to defeat your enemy. Their strengths can be used against them, their weaknesses exploited to your advantage. The strongest does not always prevail … Observation and recognition can be more powerful than your wand …_

Snape's words echoed through Killian's thoughts. He wished he could block them out, but they were ingrained in him. Snape was his mentor. Everything he learned, every skill he honed, all from Snape. As much as Killian loathed the thought, he was Snape's apprentice and the traitorous wizard's teachings were what had kept him alive thus far.

But now, Killian had a problem. Two apparent vigilantes were running the risk of ruining his well-set plans. He had to make quick work of them, but this would not be an easy task. They worked well together, and would have to be separated.

The large one's skills appeared to lay in close combat. The girl, on the other hand, seemed to be far more suited to ranged attacks. Closing the distance with her would be advantageous to Killian. Separate them, then bring them together.

Killian began to duel with the petite, yet aggressive, young witch. Parrying with her, in and of itself, was not terribly difficult. She was very fast, but she was also predictable, making a counter rather simple. The problem for Killian was breaking his parry to cast a jinx towards her partner. He knew it would be deflected, but he needed to keep her partner at a distance as he advanced on the girl. Her speed made this a difficult task, and Killian was nearly struck on more than one exchange. After several more parries, he began to maneuver into place.

 _Be aware of your environment … Use it as an ally …_

Again, Snape's words guided Killian. He made his way in on her. She backed away, as he expected, right where he had anticipated. To the untrained eye, it would appear random and insignificant. But a skilled wizard knows that nothing is random. Everything has a purpose. It was a game of chess … Strategy … Positioning. He was ready to take the Queen, but first he needed her Knight to believe he had the upper hand.

While Killian advanced ever closer, the trees and brush around them ablaze with smoke and fires, he saw that her partner had begun to sneak around to his blind side … Or what her partner thought to be a blind side. Killian let him advance, uncontested.

"Gotcha!" Killian heard as he was grabbed from behind with crushing force.

Once taken, Killian lowered his staff in feigned defeat, allowing for the girl to approach with confidence, and playing right into his hands. They believed they had won. Their defenses were down. Perfect. Perfect and predictable. When she was within a few feet, Killian struck, blasting the Queen and her Knight to the ground with an unexpected act of aggression.

" _Expelliarmus_!" Killian cast.

Both of their wands were raked from their hands, arcing towards Killian, who plucked them from the air. He did not need to speak the spell. He did not know why he did. Perhaps to assert his domination. It mattered not. He stood before them, his staff now drawn on his defenseless adversaries.

"Barabbas!" the girl said suddenly, looking beyond Killian towards the old steel mill.

Killian turned and saw the Colossus at the entrance to the mill. Barabbas had seen him, recognized him. There would be no element of surprise. His opportunity was lost. The thought overwhelmed him, enraged him.

"Damn you!" he shouted, tossing the wands back at his rivals.

He then whirled around and raced towards Barabbas, consumed with fury, unable to control his emotions. Blasting the ground beneath his feet, he launched himself through the air, covering several hundred feet before landing with purpose before the advancing Colossus. This action seemed to catch Barabbas off guard, but only for a moment, before he unleashed a barrage of curses that Killian struggled to counter.

 _Mind your positioning …_

 _Too close_ , Killian thought as his dark mentor's words continued to guide him.

In truth, he had come in far too close. It was a rash and foolish miscalculation. Barabbas was slow, but the lack of distance neutralized any advantage Killian had in speed. Although reluctant, he knew he had to retreat before he was crushed under the brute force the Colossus rained down upon him.

" _Lumos caecus_!" Killian cast in desperation.

It was a temporary fix, but the Blinding Spell bought enough time for Killian to reposition himself. Barabbas reversed the spell and looked about, eyes blazing as he let loose an animalistic roar that echoed through the night.

As Killian adjusted, he saw Barabbas for what he was. More beast than man. Monstrous, cornered, and dangerous. Killian was out-muscled, overpowered. He could not win by dueling might against might.

As Killian cleared his mind, fighting to regain control of his emotions, Barabbas unleashed a commanding curse that seared through the air. Killian raised a defensive spell, but the sheer force behind the curse was enough to send Killian careening backwards, crashing through a series of broken windows that lined the old steel mill. Had it not been for his defensive spell, the curse would have annihilated him. As it was, he still felt as though his body had been run through.

Upon nothing more than instinct, Killian cast a Descending Charm, slowing his fall as he fell to the cement floor of the steel mill's dilapidated interior. Even still, he hit the ground awkwardly.

It was the most powerful curse Killian had ever absorbed, yet not a word was uttered by Barabbas. No audible casts, no intelligible sounds less the animalistic baritone that emanated from the giant's lungs. Killian wondered if speech was even a skill the Colossus had obtained in life. What was clear, however, was that Killian had greatly underestimated his opponent, thinking him to be nothing more than a mass of underdeveloped intelligence contained in a hyper-developed carcass. Barabbas appeared to be slow, appeared to be obtuse and simple-minded, appeared to be an obstacle easy enough to overcome. It was nothing more than a ruse. Barabbas, like Killian, was far more than he was outwardly perceived to be.

The assault had taken Killian's wind, but at least nothing was broken this time. He had to regroup. A blast of red light burst past his ear, narrowly missing its target. Barabbas was upon him once again. Killian leapt to his feet, keeping his distance from the rabid beast, observing, waiting for an opportunity.

He began to analyze Barabbas' attack, peeling it back layer-by-layer, searching for the chinks in his armor. Barabbas relied on brute strength, simply overpowering his opponent. His accuracy at a distance, however, was moderate at best.

Several more curses lit the air around Killian, but were easily avoided. He retaliated with a series of attacks that found their mark in principle if not in effectiveness. He would need something more.

" _Perustum exuro_!" Killian shouted as a fiery inferno rained down upon Barabbas in molten waves.

It was a powerful curse, a draining curse for the caster. However, while Barabbas' offense was flawed at a distance, his defensive tactics were equally strong from any range. Killian's attack was cast off with little more annoyance than a pesky swarm of summer flies. Furthermore, Killian found that he was not the only one measuring and analyzing his enemy. Barabbas, too, seemed to be calculating and adjusting his attacks. He knew he lacked accuracy, so began to rely on area-wide destruction to even the playing field. If he could not strike the bird with the stone, he would burn down the entire tree.

Immediately recognizing this new approach, Killian began to distance himself further. He would need all the space he could find to counter whatever was being thrown at him. At the moment, this consisted of several smelting vats weighing several tons being fired in succession and crashing into the brick and mortar walls that encompassed the mill. It appeared that the Colossus was willing to take out the entire building to overcome his prey.

… _Know your enemy … Their strengths can be used against them … The strongest does not always prevail … Be aware of your environment …. Observation and recognition …_

Killian's mind was awhirl. He was running out of space as well as time. He needed to act. Barabbas sent a curse that manifested itself in the form of a swirling serpentine dragon crashing through the rafters as it circled above Killian, causing portions of the ceiling to give way and careen towards the concrete floor.

" _Declino reverto_!" Killian cast just as the debris was upon him, causing it to spiral away with an explosion that reverberated through the mill. " _Extinctum casso_!" he followed up, causing the translucent dragon to evaporate in an explosion of green mist.

Killian felt weak; he felt inadequate. It had been forever since he relied on audible casting. He had allowed himself to become overconfident, drained himself too quickly. He would have to find a window, an opening … He would have to find it fast.

 _Focus and recognize …_

He saw it … On the far wall, far above the floor where Barabbas, having his previous curse nullified, had returned to his assault of oversized projectiles. Steel beams left over from when the mill was in operation. Precariously stacked. They would do nicely.

Killian ducked and tumbled to avoid a portion of the furnace that had been ripped away and fired in his general direction. " _Effractum iacio_!" he shouted.

It was a weak curse, cast in haste, but it found its mark as streaming bolts of electricity seared the harnesses that held the industrial shelves housing the steel beams. The shelves crumbled under the assault and the beams plunged downward atop Barabbas in a waterfall of corroded steel.

The Colossus threw up a defense to deflect the beams just as Killian anticipated. Barabbas' defenses were now upward, leaving his body exposed. With his adversary left open, Killian attacked with a vengeance.

" _Reducto maximus_!"

Killian's curse struck the beast with a potent force that made the steel beams seem like a shower of feathers by comparison. But it would not be enough. Killian had to follow through. Even as the thought processed through his head, Barabbas began to stumble to his feet, regaining his composure. A second wave of attacks pushed the Colossus back, but did not take out his feet. His defensive spells were weakening, but were still effective enough.

Killian then began to use Barabbas' tactics against him, charming enormous structures in the mills and directing them towards his wounded adversary. With every attempt to block an attack, Barabbas was struck with another. Yet, still he stood.

The relentless attacks were weakening Killian to the point of exhaustion. He knew he could not keep it up for much longer. Barabbas was beginning to collect himself and was ready, at any moment, to go back on the offensive. Realizing that his opportunity was quickly fading, Killian summoned the very last of his reserves.

" _Annullo omnis_!" he shouted, thrusting his staff into the stone beneath his feet, unleashing a curse that erupted from his central point, expanding in a wave of rippling gale force energy that shook the very foundations surrounding them.

Twisted metal, brick, and large sections of the roof came crashing down with a deafening impact as Killian contained himself in a Barrier Spell, protecting himself from the destruction all about him. Barabbas, however, too weakened and battle weary, was not able to raise an effective enough defense. As the structure came down around him, he was crushed under the tons of rubble and debris.

When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, Killian found himself standing alone in the chaos, the very air about him still burning in his lungs. The Colossus had fallen.

It took several moments before Killian could move. He stood there, staring at the portions of Barabbas' lifeless body that protruded from under the remains of the mill. It was over. At least for this night. Passion and control. He had nearly lost it again. Clutching Hermione's ring in his hand, a chill ran through Killian's weak and tired body.

"You have got to be bloody kidding me, brother!" came a familiar and unwelcome voice. "Never in my life have I seen … I mean, you just took out _Barabbas_! Why didn't you just say that's why you were lurking about?"

"Still here, I see," Killian said without turning. "Ready to turn me in?"

"Don't think it's gonna be necessary," came the reply. "Seems we're on the same side. Name's Altimus. Altimus Marconius … The seventh." Altimus made his way around Killian. "This here's Wraith," he added, gesturing to the young girl who was now glaring at Killian with curiosity.

"Wraith?" Killian asked coldly.

Altimus smiled. "It's what she calls herself. At least when she talks, which isn't very often. Like a bloody mute most of the time. Hell of a bore on long trips, but I'd choose no other to have my back in a scrape."

"The Hunter," Wraith said, her eyes still locked on Killian.

"What?" Altimus asked, as if he had not heard correctly.

"You're the _Hunter_ ," Wraith went on accusingly. "Aren't you?"

Killian returned Wraith's glare.

"Bloody hell," Altimus said in sudden realization. "You're the one they've been writing about in the Prophet. So you're real, after all, eh? Personally figured it was just propaganda to strike fear into them filthy Death Eaters. Looks like you're just like us, then. Hunting Dark wizards for the Ministry, or what's left of it, that is."

"You work for the Ministry?" Killian asked.

"Not exactly," Altimus explained. "Work a bit outside the law, if you know what I mean. Not the sort of work the Ministry wants to be associated with directly. Those who'd want to have any part in it at all, that is. It's troubled times. The Ministry has fallen, for lack of a more pleasant way of saying it. But there are still those who care."

"And you make it a habit to hunt Dark wizards with the help of children?" Killian asked, returning his focus on Wraith, who scowled at the remark.

Altimus laughed. "Oh, she's a tiny lass, but she's no child, I can assure you that. Too many curves. Maybe part elf or something, I don't know. Would explain the height issue though, wouldn't it?"

Wraith snapped a look of astonished anger upon Altimus with such tenacity that Killian almost found it amusing.

"What?" Altimus shrugged. "I'm standing up for you." He turned back towards Killian. "You know, we should work together. The three of us. Heck of team we'd make. What, with what you just did here … Think of it. Turn the tides a bit, if nothing else. What'd you say your name was, brother?"

"I didn't," Killian answered. "My name is not important. I do not work for the Ministry and we are _not_ on the same side. Everyone close to me ends up dead, so you are best to keep your distance."

Killian's remark was met with stunned silence. Before Altimus could filter the thought and come up with a response, Killian Disapparated and was gone.


	10. Chapter 10 - Found and Lost

_Another chapter ready to post. And, per usual, the customary apologies are in place for the time it has taken. For this one, as well as the short length. I intended for it to be much longer, having another scene incorporated with it much like previous chapters that have a "side-by-side" sort of format. But I then realized it would take away from the feel of the chapter. So it was chopped down to a short chapter with the other scene incorporated into the next one (which will hopefully be posted soon :/) ..._

 _But I digress. It's short, it's ... well, I don't know if sweet is the correct term or not, but it's something. Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Ten -_

 _Found and Lost_

A sharp rasp on the door broke Killian's slumber. On the alert, he reached for his staff and cautiously made his way across the room. In an offensive wave, he flung the door open to engage whomever had found him. Instantly, he froze, his staff falling to his side, as he saw Hermione standing at the threshold.

"Killian!" she cried, throwing her arms around her Slytherin and burying her head in his shoulder.

Killian returned the embrace without hesitation as the scent of her hair enveloped him with a sudden and overwhelmingly welcomed sense of comfort and safety. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "How did you find me?"

"It wasn't hard," Hermione answered. "You left quite a trail."

"But how?" Killian pressed, refusing to relinquish his hold on her regardless of the pain that pulsed in his tired and battered body. "The Memory Charm …"

"Harry removed it," Hermione explained. "He figured it out. He was worried it might have been placed on me by some Dark wizard." She paused, her breath quivering. "Although, I guess he was right about that, wasn't he?"

"I'm not a Dark wizard," Killian said defensively.

"Aren't you?" Hermione pulled back and looked up at Killian, her eyes almost accusing. "After what you've done? After what you did to me?"

"I … I'm so sorry …" Killian drew Hermione close once again, kissing her on the forehead. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Apologizing?" Hermione teased. "That's a sign of weakness, remember?"

Her touch, her smile, her eyes. How he had longed for them, fearing he might never have the chance to experience them again. Now, he was filled with an overwhelming sensation just to hold her. Nothing else in existence mattered.

Hermione smiled as she ran her hand across Killian's battered cheek. The encounters with Kane and Barabbas, as well as many other encounters Killian had engaged in during his pursuits in the weeks that had followed, had taken their toll. "You look terrible, she said tenderly. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore," Killian answered, taking her hand into his and kissing her palm as she rested her head upon his chest.

"Please, come with me," Hermione said, her voice soft and pleading.

"To where?" Killian asked.

"Anywhere," Hermione answered. "We can run away. Far away from all of this pain and death."

"Could it really be that simple?" Killian asked almost rhetorically as he lost himself in the aroma of Hermione's skin.

"It could have been," Hermione answered, her voice now barely a whisper.

"Could?" Killian asked, caught off guard by the comment.

Again, Hermione pulled back to look up at Killian. "You left me," she said as her eyes began to well.

In that moment, Killian's anger melted away. All thoughts of vengeance vanished. He wanted peace, nothing else. Just the two of them, far away from the complications that blistered and burned throughout the wizarding world. Just them. Together.

"It was a mistake," he assured. "A mistake I do not wish to repeat."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Hermione went on as a tear now traced her cheek. "It's too late."

"No," Killian argued. "I can fix this."

"That's just like you," Hermione mused aloud, her smile like a fractured reflection of comfort and sadness. "Always believing you can fix everything." She then rested her head on his chest once again. "You can't fix this, Killian. Not after everything that's happened. It can never be the same. We can never be the same."

Hermione's words cut deeper than the sharpest of blades, each syllable like acid in his ears. He cursed them, all the while finding them impossible to argue. She was right. How could it ever be the same? How could they ever go back to what they were after what he had done? Even so, he refused to relinquish.

"I don't believe that," he said. "And I don't believe you do either."

Hermione pulled away from Killian in a manner she had never done before, creating distance between them. It was almost dismissive if not for the genuine lost look of anguish on her face.

"It doesn't matter what I believe," she cried, her voice wavering as she fought to contain her emotions. "None of it matters."

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Killian asked, reaching for his Gryffindor only to have her pull away further.

"Killian …" Hermione wept, looking to the floor and taking several breaths before her teary eyes met his once again. "You don't even know where I am."

"What?" Killian asked, feeling a sudden pressure in his chest.

Before he could process Hermione's words, however, a loud bang erupted from the hall, followed by a pounding upon the entrance to Killian's room. Hermione looked towards the door, then back to Killian, who stepped forward and drew his staff to the ready. As he went to advance, however, Hermione quickly stood in his path.

"Killian!" she pled as she placed her hands on Killian's cheeks, forcing his eyes from the door and towards her. "Killian look at me!"

Against all reason and desire, Killian ignored Hermione, struggling to free himself from her grip as the pounding grew louder.

"Killian, please look at me!" Hermione persisted. "Killian!"

As the pounding on the door increased, Killian knew at any moment the hinges would give way and the barrier between them and whomever was fighting to gain access would fall. Just as he began to pull away, however, he froze, gazing into Hermione's eyes.

"Please …" she said. "Don't go …"

Struggling with his internal conflict, his vengeance drawing him towards the door as his heart fell towards his Gryffindor, Killian lowered his staff as another torturous tear fell from Hermione's eye.

"I don't understand," he said. "What's happening?"

Hermione looked upon Killian in a manner that lacked the luster and euphoria he had witnessed in so many of her expressions in the past. It was weak, weary, and trodden. And in its sadness Killian saw his future; a future once certain but now all but lost.

"I know," she said. "But you will."

Killian went to speak, but Hermione quickly silenced him, placing her finger to his lips. The pounding continued upon the door, but it suddenly seemed meaningless. Killian no longer cared. There was nothing of importance beyond his line of sight.

"Will you do something for me?" Hermione asked.

"I will do anything you ask," Killian answered, grasping Hermione's hand as she lowered it from his lips.

"Promise?" Hermione asked on.

Killian traced his thumbs across Hermione's palm, sensing the curvature and texture of her soft skin amidst the sounds of shattering wood echoing in the surrounding air.

"I promise …"

The entire room seemed to fall in upon them all at once as Hermione stood on her toes, kissing Killian softly before running her fingers through his hair as she gently whispered in his ear.

"Wake up …"

In an instant, the sounds of the room funneled away and returned with an explosion of writhing sensations. Killian grasped his staff and leapt to his feet, deflecting a curse upon instinct alone. The second and third came in quick succession as three intruders were now upon him in the cramped confinement of his rented room.

Within seconds, two were disposed; one through the window, the other through a wall. After disarming the third, Killian pressed him to the wall and advanced upon him to get a better look.

Finding no recognition, he then loosened his jinx just enough for the man to breath.

"Is there a reason you've removed my door from its hinges in the middle of the night?" Killian asked coolly.

"Another question, is it?" the man asked in a bristly well-worn voice. "You've been asking a lot of 'em. Making people uncomfortable."

Killian then noticed the man's gloves. Dark purple. But like his voice, they were also well-worn. Not fitting of a Watcher in any current Order. Killian assumed he, like many he had encountered in recent weeks, was another rogue; no longer loyal but still weary of anyone revealing more than they should. It appeared Killian's pursuit of Tanzar and his brood had caught the attention of more than simply Death Eaters.

"I don't suppose you have any answers for me, do you?" Killian asked on with a raised eyebrow.

"You'll not get anything from me," the man answered defiantly.

"That is a pity," Killian conceded, tisking as he paced before the man. "If that is the case, then you're not much good to me, are you?"

"Bah," the man dismissed. "Insolent little whelp. Do you have any idea who we are?"

"Yes," Killian answered, narrowing his eyes and redirecting his staff upon the intruder with the timeworn gloves. "You're practice."

With a sweep of Killian's staff the man joined his compatriot who left through the window, landing with a sickeningly dull thump on the pavement two stories below.

For the night, it was over.

As the room settled back into a sense of calm and quiet, Killian glanced around. Clutching Hermione's ring as it hung from the thin silver chain around his neck, he closed his eyes, sensing the scene that had played out in his head only moments before. Where she stood, how she felt, the scent of her perfume … So vibrant and detailed, it was as if she were there with him, in the room, standing before him. But when he opened his eyes, it was just as before; cold, empty, and alone. She was gone, having never been there to begin with.

Cursing his subconscious for tormenting his dreams, Killian released his emotions with a curse that tore the plaster from the walls and blew the remaining glass from the windows with a pulsing wave of reverberating energy. Then, fearing he may have alerted other rogues or Death Eaters in the area to his presence, he quickly gathered up his things and Disapparated. He had neither the will nor the desire for another encounter that evening. With his actions, he had sent yet another message. On this night, that would be enough.


	11. Chapter 11 - Cold Camps and Burrows

_Another post is finally up. And I wish to take a moment to offer an apology. I have made several excuses for the delays in these posts, and in truth, I have not been exactly honest. So to be quick and to the point, a few years ago my neck was broken. Luckily it did not cause any sort of loss of limb usage, but it did create significant nerve damage to my neck and left arm. I have had two major surgeries and seven other procedures (and counting) to attempt to correct the damage, but it is still a proverbial work in progress. One could not tell to look at me, as I come off as a normal dashingly handsome and charismatic individual ... Or so I tell myself ... But underneath, there is significant pain._

 _So alas, the true reason for the delays is that I have been having some issues of late with the pain flaring up. When this happens, it is very difficult to type. This, beyond anything, makes it horrible, as I enjoy nothing more than writing, particularly this tale of Hermione and Killian. And although I get few reviews, those reviews bring me an great amount of joy as it lets me know that someone else has enjoyed their story as well._

 _The only reason I am mentioning this is because I do not wish for anyone to think that I have lost interest or have some form of writer's block. Quite the contrary, I have this story arc completed in my head right down to the very last line of the final chapter. The timing was just terrible in that these issues came up as I was writing Descent into Darkness._

 _Okay, so we have had our moment, no need to mention it again. On to better things. Chapter Eleven is ready to go ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Eleven -_

 _Cold Camps and Burrows_

It was not the way Hermione had hoped to spend the early hours of the morning; in a cold tent, frightened, exhausted, confused, and tending to Harry as he lay unconscious after their encounter with Nagini in Godric's Hollow.

It had all happened so fast. Harry and Bathilda Bagshot had only just made their way up the stairs when everything came undone. And while they had managed to escape, the event created a new series of questions demanding answers. Unfortunately, it felt as though the more they searched for resolutions, the more elusive they became. Perhaps the world had run out of solutions. Perhaps they now lived in a reality bathed in anomalies and ends that were simply meant to be left open. It certainly appears so of late.

Bathilda Bagshot; author of _A History of Magic_ , among her other writings. There was nary a student at Hogwarts who had not studied her works. Now, she was little more than another victim in this endless war. Another pointless death. Who would be next? It was a thought that weighed heavily upon Hermione. More so than she would like to admit. With Ron gone and Harry delirious as he lay nestled under layers of blankets, it was difficult to think of anything else.

Harry groaned, rocking his head from side to side as Hermione dabbed the beads of sweat from his brow with a cool sponge. Still, he did not wake.

"What are we going to do?" Hermione asked essentially of herself, as there was no one else to hear her at the moment.

In the quiet of the night, Hermione's mind began to wander as she continued to nurse Harry through his delirium. She eyed the snake bite on his arm and placed her hand on his chest, feeling the oval outline of seared flesh left from the Horcrux beneath his shirt. Seeing him lying there was so oddly familiar. Perhaps familiar was not the term. But it more closely matched what she was experiencing than any other description she could conjure at the moment.

Images flickered through her mind. Another dream, perhaps? She did not recall having it. And like most images of this nature; they were unfocused and seemingly random. Her stranger, laying motionless upon blankets draped over a tattered pallet in a darkened room. As with every moment they shared, he was right there, so close she could reach out and feel his bare skin beneath her fingers, but she could not see him.

He, like Harry, appeared to be hurt. Or it felt that way, if that even made sense. Even so, she was angry with him for his stupidity and stubbornness. Or was she? There was no logic to it whatsoever. Where were they? What did it mean? And more importantly than the previous, who was he?

In recent days, Hermione had begun questioning what she had come to accept as a subconscious manifestation of her confusing feelings towards Ron. Feelings that had apparently become even more confusing in his absence. Each time she came to this conclusion, however, it complicated things further. For while it appeared to make sense, timing and otherwise, imagining herself engaging with Ron in such a manner simply did not have effect as when she closed her eyes and relived the way her stranger continuously seduced her with his every word and action, however mundane or simplistic it may be. Even now, all she wanted was to be laying beside him on their makeshift bed, to hear his heart beating in her ear as she lay her head upon his chest.

Biting her lower lip, Hermione forgave herself a fanciful smile, only then realizing she was being less than appropriate with Harry, her handle gently caressing his chest as he mumbling in his sleep.

Breathless and mortified, she quickly reapplied the cool cloth to Harry's forehead, extraordinarily thankful he was unconscious at the moment. And with that, her momentary escape dissolved and she returned to her melancholy.

The calendar indicated it was Christmas morning, but the world around her could not have felt less lighthearted and festive. They were lost; emotionally and physically, with little to no direction. And if they were being honest, they were quite short in that area from the start.

In a vain attempt to lighten her mood, Hermione tried to think of Holidays from years past. Family, friends, decorations of holly and mistletoe. The scent of cookies baking and logs on the fire. Everything that would warm one's heart and soul.

It was then that she found herself struggling with her consciousness once again. For all she tried, she could not remember her Christmas from the year previous. Not at all. The year prior to last she spent with Harry and Ron at Grimmauld Place. She remembered it quite well, albeit even that seemed a little off. But last year … It was like pulling images from a fog. Vague and clouded. She had no recollection of going home, nor spending it with Harry and Ron. As there was little other in the area of options, this left Hermione at a loss.

" _You should smile during the holidays. That's what they're for …"_

Ron was staring into her eyes as they sat on a bench aside a frozen pond. As he looked at her, gently massaging her cold hands, Hermione was filled with a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging she had never felt before.

" _I'm smiling now …"_

What were they doing? Was this really just another dream, another fantasy? It was so vivid, with Ron's features clear and defined.

" _I need to be going …"_

" _I know … Shall I walk you?"_

No! That cannot be right. Where were they? Why was she leaving? Why would he walk her? And when has Ron ever spoken like that? It made no sense. No sense at all. Yet, it seemed so real. She could still feel his hands enveloping hers, warming her beyond the cold air that surrounded them.

Closing her eyes, Hermione was hit with another series of images. A memory? A dream? It felt almost surreal.

She was standing in the Great Hall, surrounded by housemates. Ron was there, holding a holiday cracker. He had taken it from her and they were now arguing over it. His words were so arrogant and confident. And, if she were being honest, too proper for Ron. But there he was, standing right before her, refusing to relinquish that which belonged to her. But far from wanting to strike at him, Hermione was filled with an almost uncontrollable desire to … Well, she dare not say what she truly wished to do.

Now stretching for her cracker, which Ron dangled over his head just out of her reach, Hermione pressed her body to his, using his shoulder for leverage as she reached upwards. Very discretely, she glanced her lips across his neck.

" _Is this what you want?"_

Hermione suddenly noticed Draco staring at them from the Slytherin table, embarrassing her for reasons beyond any rational basis she could imagine. And at that moment, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Ron's hair. Brown … Dark brown … Not red …

"Not Ron!" Hermione blurted aloud, startling herself with her own utterance in the silence of the tent.

"No … No … No!" Harry moaned.

Hermione snapped from her distraction, her attention now on Harry as he struggled in his sleep.

"Harry, it's all right!" she assured, placing her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to wake him from whatever dream had overcome him. "You're all right!"

"No …" Harry argued, now visibly struggling in his sleep. "I dropped it … I dropped it!"

"Harry, it's okay!" Hermione continued, nearly fumbling the sponge as Harry struggled against her grip. "Wake up, wake up!"

In a quick burst, Harry's eyes opened, darting about before reaching Hermione. For a fraction of a second there was nary a hint of recognition before his gaze softened and he exhaled with an exhausted sigh.

"We got away," he said, although Hermione was uncertain if he was asking for reassurance or simple stating a fact.

"Yes," she answered anyway.

. . .

Elsewhere, at that very moment, Killian, like Hermione, found himself in an area he never would have imagined for the Holiday. The cold biting winds of winter welcomed the Christmas season with little joy. Killian's search had been all but fruitless since his encounter with Barabbas. With the first two on his list coming in relatively quick succession, Killian had allowed himself to believe it would continue on as such. Week after week of dead ends and false leads would unfortunately prove otherwise.

Making matters even worse, he now found himself sidetracked. As much as he had convinced himself he was above such distractions, Killian found the temptation insurmountable. He soon discovered, however, that this failure of fortitude offered far more concern than joyous release.

"Hello Ron," Killian greeting coolly from the window to Ron's bedroom in the Burrow.

"Bloody hell!" Ron blurted, attempting to draw his wand, only to be disarmed immediately.

"Calm yourself," Killian went on as he caught Ron's wand from the air and locked the bedroom door with a casual wave of his staff. "And keep your voice down."

"What are you doing in my room?" Ron questioned. "How did you even get in here?"

"I think the bigger question is what are _you_ doing in your room," Killian asked in return.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ron protested, puffing his chest towards Killian.

"Precisely as it sounds," Killian answered simply. "Where are they?"

Ron paused, giving a halfhearted and utterly unbelievable shrug and shake of his head. "They who?" he asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I do not have time for games, Ron," Killian said with a sigh.

"You must be some sort of mental. Barge in here making demands like some kind of someone," Ron said flippantly. "You have any idea who's here? Got half the Order downstairs," he went on with a gesture towards his door. "All this ruckus, someone's heard. Any minute they'll be coming through that door and—"

"No one is going to hear anything," Killian pointed out. "I've placed a Barrier Charm on the room. Clever little trick I learned from your brothers. No sound can escape it."

"You've what?" Ron asked with exasperation. "Then why'd you tell me to keep my voice down?"

"Because I have no desire to listen to you carrying on at elevated decibles," Killian answered. "I also asked that you please calm yourself. So if you wouldn't mind …" he added, nodding towards a chair aside Ron's bed.

"You think I don't know why you're here?" Ron asked rhetorically. "I know you. You're with Malfoy and the rest of 'em. I'm not telling you anything. Don't care what you do. You'll get nothing from me."

"Whatever you may think," Killian began, "I can assure you I'm—"

"You're what?" Ron piped in. "Not one of them? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"If I meant anything of ill nature," Killian explained, "Do you not think I would have done something by now?"

"You don't want me," Ron argued. "Harry's the one you're all after."

Ron could not be less correct in his assumption of Killian's desires, but Killian could not fault him for his line of thinking. Under the circumstances, it made perfectly logical sense for him to believe it so.

"And they sent me?" Killian asked on. "Instead of raising this home to the ground, picking you off one by one, and placing you under the Cruciatus Curse until your mind breaks?"

"You all know whose here," Ron surmised. "Cowardly lot like yourselves wouldn't dare attack the Order head on. Sent you in to grab me without raising any alarms. It's why you put the barrier up, isn't it? Nice and quiet."

For the first time in his life, Killian truly saw himself for what others saw in him. Maybe not all, but a great many. And in times such as these, appearances meant a great deal. He was seen as an enemy, a person to be feared and never trusted. So often he had embraced such a belief as it kept others at a distance, leaving him safe within his own world. Now, however, a lifetime of building walls was showing to have devastating consequences.

After a short stalemate, Killian took a deep breath. "Here," he said calmly, returning Ron's wand to its rightful owner. A moment later, he handed his staff over as well.

"What are you playing at?" Ron asked cautiously as he glanced back and forth between the wand and staff he now held in his possession.

"I'm not playing at anything," Killian answered with as much sincere humility as he could muster. "I only want to help you understand I have no ill intentions. In truth, I misspoke earlier, as I do not wish to know where they are. I simply wish to know they are safe."

Slowly, and without making eye contact, Ron shifted over to his chair and sat down. Placing his wand down upon the bed, he examined Killian's staff, turning it over several times.

"This was your dad's, wasn't it?" he asked, although it was evident there was no question hidden in his words.

"It was," Killian answered.

"I've seen it before," Ron said. "A few times. When I'd be at the Ministry with my dad I'd sometimes see your dad in passing. Always carrying this. Hated it," he went on, again turning it over. "Reminded me of the walking stick Lucius would carry about." With his eyes on the floor, Ron handed the staff back to Killian. "I'm sorry about what happened," he said. "To your family, I mean."

"Thank you," Killian said, accepting his staff and gripping it firmly.

"I overheard people talking about it," Ron continued. "Not the kind of thing the Prophet would be reporting, you know. Not with your family. And I just …" He paused, now balling his fists and rapping them against his forehead.

"It's all right," Killian assured.

"No, it's not," Ron argued. "You don't understand. When I first heard, I thought … I thought _good_ … They deserved it. Filthy Death Eaters. They all deserved it."

In a sudden wave of emotion, Killian closed his eyes, seeing the faces of his father, his mother, his sister, the countless servants; everyone who fell prey to the viscous attack from Tanzar and his brood. "I'm certain there were many who shared in you sentiment," he conceded. "But no matter their sins, their affiliations … My family never bore the mark of the Dark Lord."

For the first time, Ron looked at Killian without anger or resentment. "Even if they did," he said. "Me feeling like that … What kind of person does that make me?"

"Human, I guess," Killian answered.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, although his tone indicated anything but acceptance of Killian's simple explanation. "I don't know where they are," he went on. "Harry, Hermione … I have no idea."

"What do you mean?" Killian asked. "Were you not with them?"

"I was," Ron answered.

"What happened?" Killian asked on.

Ron stood from his chair abruptly and began to pace the room. "I left," he admitted. "I don't even know why. I mean I do, but … But I don't. You ever heard of a Horcrux? I imagine where you're from, you probably have."

"A rather Dark bit of magic, isn't it?" Killian answered. "Splitting one's soul and such."

"We have one," Ron explained. "You-Know-Who's."

"Tell me that was poor attempt at humor," Killian said.

"I wish it was," Ron confirmed grimly. "I really do. Just being near it … It does things, makes you feel things, makes you do things. And I knew it. I knew I was only feeling the way I felt because of that stupid bloody Horcrux. But I … I still left. I let it happen. I let it control me."

"It's not your fault, Ron," Killian reassured, trying desperately to remain focused as his mind raced in a thousand directions at once. "Horcruxes are immensely powerful. Not to be trifled with. Why in all sanity do you have one?"

"I don't anymore," Ron clarified. "They do. Harry and Hermione."

"I don't understand," Killian went on. "How did you even come into possession of it?"

"Stole it from Umbridge, the old hag," Ron answered. "Or stole it back, as it was. And now Harry means to destroy it. Means to destroy 'em all. Just can't figure a way to do it. Seems indestructible."

"All of them?" Killian asked. "How many do they have?"

"Just the one," Ron answered. "A locket. Belonged to Harry's godfather's younger brother. Sort of. He kind of nicked it too after he had his house-elf swap it out with a fake in the cave."

"Wait, who did what?"

"It's a long story."

"You can sum it up another time."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Ron lamented. "I left them out there. You-Know-Who has his followers tearing this country apart searching for Harry and I just left them out there." His voice wavered as his eyes began to tear. "I tried to go back. As soon as I left, I tried. It was like something snapped inside of me right as I got clear of that damned talisman. But it was too late. Ran into a pack of Snatchers." Returning to his chair, Ron slumped down with his head in his hands and eyes on the floor. "Talked my way out it well enough. As soon as I was free of 'em, I came home. Been trying to figure out a way back since, but I don't even know where to begin." As if a sudden thought occurred to him, Ron looked to Killian. "Hang on … How did you know I was here?"

Dare he say? Killian struggled with the notion. Having planted eyes and ears in so many darkened corners over the previous months, a web of eavesdroppers and snoops had become seamlessly interwoven within the unnoticed shadows of society. And still, for all his coin and effort Killian had yet to discover the whereabouts of Vetis and Verin. He had, however, heard rumor of someone skulking about in the area of the Burrow.

Normally, such gossip would have been ignored. Sightings of Harry abounded from every corner of the countryside each and every day. What caught Killian's attention was the fact that this was not another Harry Potter sighting. It was vague and relatively nondescript; a young ginger, tall and lean. While seemingly minor and insignificant, the information filled Killian with a rush of hope. If Ron had returned to the Burrow, surly Harry and Hermione had accompanied him.

Just a glimpse was all he needed, a fraction of a second as she passed by the window. While Killian knew he could not approach her, perhaps simply the sight of her from afar would satiate the sickening symptoms of withdrawal he had been suffering in her absence.

But in the days that Killian spent stalking the grounds he came to realize the trio had not returned. At least, not in full. Ron was alone. Which meant Hermione and Harry were still out there. It was this realization that placed Killian in Ron's room at that very moment. A realization that Killian had no intention of sharing.

"People talk," Killian offered as a reasonable explanation. "You simply need to know when to listen."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "I wish I had. Listened, I mean. I was just so angry. But even as I was leaving, screaming at Harry as I was walking out on the two of 'em, they still tried to—"

" _... remember Ron? … When he broke his wand, crashing the car? …"_

The voice was muffled and barely audible, but recognizable beyond any doubt. Hermione. Both Ron and Killian reacted with the mirrored amounts of shock and befuddlement as their eyes immediately focused on Ron's pocket.

"You heard it too?" Ron asked, looking to Killian for any form of confirmation.

"I did," Killian confirmed, although he struggled to reason what, exactly, it was he had heard.

Fumbling through his pocket, Ron removed a small polished silver object resembling a simple cigarette lighter.

"What is that?" Killian asked.

"It's a Deluminator," Ron answered.

"A what?"

"A Deluminator … It snuffs out the light," Ron explained.

"Does it often speak to you?" Killian asked.

Ron shook his head and shrugged. "Never," he answered. "Not until now, I mean. And once earlier."

"Earlier?" Killian asked.

"Not long before you popped in my window," Ron said. "It was right over there on my nightstand. But I heard it, clear as day."

"What did it say?" Killian asked further.

Ron paused, glancing down at the Deluminator, then back to Killian. "It said, _not Ron_."

"Not Ron?" Killian echoed.

"Yeah," Ron said. "I thought I'd gone mental or something."

As Ron began fumbling with the strange device, he flicked it open several times in succession to no particular effect. Then, with one final flick, the light in Ron's room went out, leaving the area in utter darkness. A moment later, a pulsing ball of blue light appeared outside the bedroom window. Without a word, Ron grabbed his rucksack and he and Killian left through the window, following the glowing orb out into the garden.

From there the strange sphere bobbed along for a bit before disappearing around the side of garden shed. Ron and Killian continued their pursuit, rounding the corner to find the light had become erratic. The soothing pulse had evolved into aggressive flashes as it surged upwards before changing direction and careening back towards Ron and Killian.

Upon instinct alone, Killian placed himself between the sphere and Ron and raised a Shielding Charm. To his shock, the sphere surged his shield like wind through a funnel, penetrating his chest and leaving him with a warm, almost soothing sensation. Turning towards Ron, he found the ball of energy had passed clear through his body and struck the ginger haired Gryffindor as well, leaving him standing aghast and rubbing his own chest in the darkness surrounding them.

"Are you all right?" Killian asked.

"Yeah," Ron answered. "You?"

"Yes," Killian said. "I feel good actually."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, still staring in amazement and drawing his hand back and forth across his chest. "Me too."

Ron's description was a severe downplay. At peace would better have described the sensation, but it seemed silly to use such a term after what had just occurred. Stranger still, there was another sensation flowing through Killian. An odd sense of familiarity, as if he could reach out over space and time and embrace an emotion.

"I think know where they are," Ron proclaimed. "I mean, not exactly," he quickly corrected. "But I can feel them. Does that even make sense?"

Therein lay the description Killian was searching for throughout his vast and varied vocabulary. A perfect summary. He had no notion as to where Hermione and Harry might be, but was filled with an assuredness that he could find them at a moment's notice should he simply choose a direction. It was the strangest sense of being Killian had ever experienced. To know nothing, but feel everything. It was a euphoria he did not wish to relinquish. Even so, he knew he must.

"You have to go to them," Killian said to Ron.

"Right," Ron concurred as he continued to massage his chest and stare off with a glassy smile. But just as soon as his hopeful expression emerged, it faded away. "What am I supposed to say?"

"About?" Killian asked curiously.

"I left," Ron clarified. "How am I supposed to face them? What if they don't want me back?"

Killian felt a shudder run through his consciousness as Ron spoke aloud the very fears Killian held within himself. Hermione no longer remembered him. Yet even if she did, would she ever want to see him again after what he had done?

"What if they hate me?" Ron continued.

Another jolt enveloped Killian as the very real realization of Hermione bearing such feelings towards him filtered through his mind.

"That's something you'll have to face?" he finally said. "But regardless of how they feel at the moment, I imagine you know they need you. No matter the feelings, you're stronger together than apart."

"Yeah," Ron conceded, albeit with little conviction. "Are you coming with?" he then asked.

 _Yes_ , Killian thought as he imagined himself Apparating aside Ron. Seeing Hermione standing there so he could take it all back and they could face whatever road may lie ahead together, regardless of the outcome.

"I'm afraid I cannot," he answered in complete contradiction to his thoughts and feelings.

"Seriously?" Ron questioned. "You just popped up in my room, asking if they're safe. We can go to 'em now, and you're saying you're not coming along? Why'd you even come here then?"

A thousand reasons ran through Killian's mind, each one with less chance of reaching his lips than the one before. "I would bring more complications than solutions," Killian finally answered. "As odd as it may seem, you will be far safer with me at a distance."

Ron glanced at Killian's staff and a sudden expression of realization washed over his face. "Bloody hell, you're the Hunter."

"So they say," Killian admitted reluctantly.

"You were in the Prophet," Ron went on. "I mean, not you specifically, but the Hunter. Dad said he was just a character some writer imagined up to rattle Death Eaters and sell papers, but Fred and George said they met him, er, you. I thought they were just talking, you know. But now …" Running his fingers through his hair, he turned his eyes to the horizon, then back to Killian. "Look," he started again. "What happened … With your family … It was—"

"I know," Killian spoke up before Ron could finish his thought. He had heard it enough times already to know exactly where Ron was going and there was no need hear the sentiment again. After a short, yet awkward silence, Killian spoke up again. "You should be going."

"I should, yeah," Ron said, flexing his shoulders and clearly attempting some form of mental preparation.

"It's probably best you don't mention you saw me," Killian suggested.

"Why would I?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Killian lied, having difficulty searching for a rationale that would not betray his true reasoning.

"No matter," Ron said with a grin. "What would I say? Some Slytherin from school barged into my bedroom to have a chat because he was worried about Harry? Who would believe me?"

"Very good point," Killian said with a grin of his own.

"Well …" Ron began with a sigh and another glance towards the horizon. "I'll guess I'll be off then."

"Good luck, Ron," Killian offered.

"Yeah," Ron returned. "You too."

After one last silent delay, Ron finally Disapparated, leaving Killian alone near the garden, daring himself to follow.


	12. Chapter 12 - Intimate Strangers

_Another post is up, and it didn't take ... um ... I don't know, however long the last one took. Very long. Too long. I will admit that I have been waiting a long time to get to this chapter in the story. Not certain why. I just remember thinking I really wanted to write this. And now I have. And it is posted. So yeah ... There's that, I guess._

 _Alas, I digress. Moving on ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Twelve -_

 _Intimate Strangers_

Ron's return filled Hermione with an emotional contradiction of euphoria and anger. The moment Harry informed her whom had helped him retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor from the water, she lashed out. Yet, even as she shouted and threatened, she was overcome with a desire to run to Ron, embrace him, and never let him go again. And whilst she had, as yet, disallowed the latter of these desires to be known, that did little to alleviate their roots within her.

In the days that followed, Hermione and Harry learned there had been a jinx put upon Voldemort's name. Any person to speak it would immediately become visible to both Death Eaters and the Dark Lord's newest band of miscreants dubbed simply as Snatchers. This certainly explained several of their near misses over the previous months.

In attempt to get themselves on the right track, or any track at all, Hermione and Ron convinced Harry they needed to speak to Luna's father. Having made a connection of sorts with a symbol on the grave of Ignotus Peverell in Godric's Hollow and a similar symbol on a necklace worn by Mr. Lovegood at Bill and Fleur's wedding, they believed the owner, writer, and editor of The Quibbler might be able to offer some form of guidance.

As it turned out, after informing the trio of the story behind The Deathly Hallows, something regarded as little more than a children's bedtime story by most within the wizarding world, Xenophilius attempted to turn Harry, Hermione, and Ron over to Voldemort.

While shocked and heartbroken by the treacherous act, it was learned that his actions were driven by his desire to have his daughter returned to him. Unbeknownst to the trio, Luna had been taken by Voldemort's minions while traveling home for the holiday on the Hogwarts Express. In the end, there is little one would not do for their children. Even betraying those in need to the Dark Lord.

Having barely escaped, and once again in hiding and on the run, Hermione sat outside their tent, welcoming the moment of solitude to collect her thoughts. The usual charms and protective barriers were in place, although they seemed to matter very little anymore. With each passing day, another of their allies fell. It was only a matter of time. As Hermione stared up at the stars that littered the night sky, she felt suddenly alone. So very and utterly alone.

After a swift breeze had rustled past, rattling the tree branches and swirling about bits of dried frozen leaves, Hermione heard a sound that set her on the alert. It was subtle and quiet, but it was there. Footsteps.

A deer, perhaps? It seemed far too deliberate to be something of nature. No, this was beyond doubt the steps of someone who wished to approach unnoticed. Unfortunately for whomever it was, Hermione was not one to be taken off guard. Pondering whether or not to alert Harry and Ron, Hermione quietly drew her wand.

It made no sense to wake them, really. After all, Harry's wand had been broken. And while Ron had presented him with a replacement, who could honestly know how well it would function in a duel? And Ron … Well, she had been avoiding him as much as possible since his return. Her deep desire to be near him, strangely forced her to keep her distance. Confusing and complicated, much like everything else in her world at the moment.

However flawed her reasoning, Hermione decided to go it alone. Her wand at the ready, she slowly made her way around the tent, careful to keep to the shadows, avoiding the patches of bright moonlight with each step. The further she moved, the louder the footsteps became until she turned the corner, wand ready to strike, and confronted the individual lurking in the darkness.

"Hello …" came an impossibly familiar voice.

Even through the darkness Hermione could make out his hair drawn back into a neat tail less a few errant locks that fell free and hung across his piercing green eyes; eyes that met hers with a soft stare. His lean figure was outline by the moonlight beyond as he stood there, his hands aloft in surrender to her.

"I believe you can lower your wand," he said with a grin that sent a rush of warmth through Hermione's body.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, attempting to remain steadfast. "Is there anyone else out there?"

"No," he answered. "Just me."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Hermione pressed.

"You don't," he answered with another grin. "I imagine you will simply have to trust me."

Hermione head erupted with echoes that she quickly shook aside before readdressing the intruder.

"Step into the light," she ordered with her wand still drawn upon her adversary. "Slowly."

The boy in the shadows obeyed Hermione's command, taking slow, deliberate steps. Sensing that allowing him to close the distance between them might be a less than intelligent course of action, Hermione quickly thought better of it.

"Stop!" she said. "Stay where you are."

"Which is it?" the boy asked. "Shall I advance or remain in place?"

"Just … Just wait," Hermione bumbled, now reconsidering her decision not to wake Harry and Ron. "How did you find this place?"

The moonlight glistened off a small silver ring that hung from a necklace around the boy's neck. "I will always find you, Hermione," he vowed.

"What did you say?" Hermione asked as her pulse began to accelerate. When the boy did not respond, she raised her wand up higher. " _Lumos_!"

There he was, bathed in the white light emanating from her wand. Her stranger. Without a word, she approached him, her hands trembling as she dared not take her eyes off him for fear he might vanish. Slowly she reached out and ran her fingers across his cheek, uncertain if she wished to laugh or cry or both simultaneously.

"You're here," she said in a voice that wavered far more than she intended.

"Yes," the boy assured as he cautiously lowered his hands.

"I can see you," Hermione went on, now allowing her hand to glide down his neck to his chest, realizing that he was offering no resistance.

"I should hope so," the boy said with another grin.

"It's just …" Hermione began, but then lost her words. "I just didn't …" she began again to the same end.

"It's all right," the boy assured.

"No, you don't understand," Hermione went on. "I—"

"Hermione," the boy persisted, grasping Hermione's hand and kissing her gently across the fingers before turning it over and kissing her palm. "It's all right."

He then reached up and grasped a lock of Hermione's hair that had fallen forward and gently placed it behind her ear. The simple gesture was so familiar, so welcome, so wanted.

Cautiously, as if she was unsure of what might occur should she follow through, Hermione rested her head against the boy's chest. "I've … missed you … so much."

The debate of laughter over tears was put to rest when she felt the pressure of his embrace, his arms finding their place perfectly around her form as if they were specifically designed to do so. Tears of suppressed and longing hope burst forth as she heard his voice whisper softly in her ear.

"I've missed you too …"

For an eternity, they held each other in silence. Hermione pressed her eyes closed, enjoying the sound of his heart beating rhythmically in her ear as she felt his warmth resonating through their clothing. It had been so long since she had felt so comfortable, so at peace.

"How did you find me?" she finally asked as his breath trickled down the back of her neck.

"I tracked Ron," the boy answered.

"I knew it," Hermione snapped. "I knew when Ron came back he left a trail. That means we're exposed. We have to—"

His lips were on hers before she could finish her thought, a thought that melted away as he stole her breath.

"You're safe," he said in a confident, yet comforting tone. "No one is going to find you."

"You did," Hermione pointed out, her voice barely a whisper.

"My motivations far exceed those of any other," he whispered in return.

"Hermione?" came a voice from the darkness surrounding their tent. "Are you out there?"

"It's Harry," Hermione whispered. Taking the boy by the hand, she attempted to lead him back towards the front of the tent. "Come on." Oddly, she found resistance as the boy remained steadfast in place. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I can't," the boy replied.

"Not to worry," Hermione assured. "He's a friend."

"I know …" There was a sadness in the boy's eyes, a lost expression that tore at Hermione. "But I can't stay."

"Of course you can," Hermione said. "Just come with me."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," the boy went on.

"Yes, it is," Hermione argued in return. "It's exactly that simple."

A rustle in the darkness marked Harry's approach. With it, the boy pulled free from Hermione and darted through the underbrush surrounding the camp, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Without hesitation, Hermione gave chase, her wand alight as she hurried through branches that snagged and scratched at her like a thousand sharpened fingers thwarting her pursuit.

When she finally broke free of her surrounding restraints, she found herself in a darkened clearing. Among the nocturnal sounds, she heard water lapping along a bank. Lowering her wand so her eyes could better adjust to the darkness, a figure came into view along a waterside.

"Hey!" she called out.

"Hey Hermione," Ron said, turning his attention away from the water.

"Ron?" Hermione asked at a loss. "What are you doing out here?"

"Skipping stones," Ron answered, grasping a smooth rock from the dirt and demonstrating. "Care to join me?"

"Did you see where he went?" Hermione asked on, disregarding the invitation as she scanned the area.

"Where who went?" Ron asked quizzically.

Hermione went to answer, but strangely found she did not have the words to do so. Ron's question had somehow awoken a fog within her consciousness. Who was it she was pursuing? She had not thought of it by the camp. He was simply _him_ ; the one, her stranger.

"You all right?" Ron asked. "You look a bit off."

"There was a boy," Hermione explained. "You must have seen him. He came right through here just a moment ago."

"There's no one here but us," Ron with a gesture to the surrounding area. "Unless you invited someone else and didn't mention it."

"Invited?" Hermione asked.

It was then Hermione saw the silver ring hanging around Ron's neck. She had not noticed it when she first entered the clearing, but now it was clear as day. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she attempted to collect her thoughts. But it was a pointless search. Now flustered and disjointed, she was unable to draw any sense or logic from what was occurring around her.

"Come on," Ron went on. "Probably should head back before someone sees us."

Turning his back to Hermione, Ron began along the path leading up the hill towards the unmistakable outline of Hogwarts pressed against the backdrop of the night sky.

"No," Hermione said, her voice barely audible as her words caught in her throat. "That not right. It can't be."

As Ron continued on, a sinking realization slowly began to settle in. Glancing back towards the direction from whence she approached the area, Hermione saw that the bushes through which she had just scurried were gone, replaced by the familiar ancient trees of the Forbidden Forest.

"No …" she cried as she spun around, searching for nothing in particular. "No, no, no!"

"Hermione …" a voice called to her as hands grasped her wrists.

Now panicking and finding each breath more pained than the previous, Hermione closed her eyes, struggling to free herself from the firm grip and finding it to be an impossible endeavor.

"Hey," he went on as Hermione continued to push and pull, refusing to open her eyes. "It's all right … Hermione …" His voice was so soothing to her. Even through the tempest raging within her heart and mind. "Look at me," he continued. "Hermione, please … Look at me …"

Slowly, Hermione opened her eyes, finding herself back within the company of her stranger. This time, however, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of desperation and loss.

"It's all right," the boy assured once again, his eyes piercing Hermione's in a manner that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. "You're all right."

"No … This is not a dream," she pleaded. "Please, this cannot be a dream." Grasping at him and clinging to his shirt, she placed her hand on his face just to feel the texture of his skin beneath her fingers. "This has to be real," she went on as tears streamed from her eyes. "I need this to be real. I need _you_ to be real."

The boy placed his hand over hers, drawing it from his face to his lips before grasping it firmer still. "Do you?" he asked with coy grin.

"No …" Hermione answered after moment's reluctance. "But I would like you to be."

"I would like to be king of the world," the boy teased playfully. "We all have our little disappointments."

Images flashed through Hermione's mind. A library with spiraling gunmetal stairs. A pair of lazy, obese, yet adorably sweet dogs. A somehow familiar room she had never seen in a home she had never visited.

"You've …" Hermione said, trying to vain to grasp at something firm within her murky convoluted subconscious. "You've said that before."

"It's possible," the boy offered. "I've said a great many things."

Hermione stared into the boy's eyes, struggling to ignite any spark of recognition. It was there. Somewhere beyond it all, it had to be there. Yet amidst all her efforts, it remained just beyond her reach.

"Who are you?" she asked desperately.

"Does it matter?" he asked in return.

"I don't know," Hermione answered honestly. "I feel as though I don't know anything. Except …" She paused, again placing her hand on his cheek, sliding it down to his shirt and clutching the fabric within her fingers. "Except that I don't want you to go."

"I'm here now," the boy assured.

"Are you though?" Hermione asked. "Are you really? Will you still be here when I wake?"

The boy offered nothing in return less a warm and inviting smile she trusted for reasons she could not fathom. He then placed his arms around her, pulling her close as, off in the distance, a song became audible. It was a familiar song from her parents' generation that Hermione had heard a hundred times before. It brought back fond memories of her childhood, playing in the lounge as her father read the paper and her mother sat aside him with a volume of Jane Austen.

She remembered how safe and carefree she felt as a child in the company of her parents. Nothing could ever go wrong so long as they were there. And now, in the arms of her stranger as they slowly swayed to the music in the night, Hermione was filled with that same cherished sensation of comfort and security. Closing her eyes, she dared to imagine a world in which she could experience such moments again.

When she opened her eyes, Hermione saw Harry sitting on the floor aside his bunk, tinkering with the radio. She was lying on her side in her own bunk, nestled under her covers as she clutched her pillow to her chest.

"Sorry," Harry apologized as he lowered the volume and the music faded away. "Did I wake you?"

"No … It's um …" Hermione bumbled groggily as she attempted to gain her bearings. "Where's Ron?"

"Standing watch," Harry answered. "Just relieved me. But I'm not really all that tired, so I was checking the radio for ... Well, I'm not really sure," he admitted with a shrug. "Just passing time, I guess. Good dream?"

"What?" Hermione asked.

"You were smiling in your sleep just now," Harry said. "Noticed when I grabbed this," he went on, displaying the radio. "Thought you must be having a really good dream."

Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Hermione's cheeks reddened uncontrollably. "Yes, actually," she admitted. "It was … Nice."

"You should get some more sleep then," Harry suggested with a smile. "Get back to it, right?"

"Right," Hermione agreed, laughing and rolling her eyes as she settled in once again, her arms firmly wrapped around her pillow. "Goodnight, Harry."

One could certainly hope, could they not?


	13. Chapter 13 - A Promise Kept

_One more chapter down, one more post up. Works well that way, doesn't it? At any rate, if you remember the timeline of events from the book (as one reader does for certain) you are aware that we are getting down to the proverbial "nitty" and "gritty" ... Not quite there, but moving along towards the final end, whatever it may bring._

 _Of note, as with several other chapters, this chapter contains dialogue taken from JK Rowling's The Deathly Hallows and reinterpreted for the purpose of this story. I do not own, I simply borrow._

 _Alas, I digress ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Thirteen -_

 _A Promise Kept_

"Well, Draco?" asked Lucius. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco looked on the swollen face that was presented before him. He knew. Even with the distorted features, he knew. Harry Potter. There was no face more burned within the confines of his memory, regardless of any masks he wore. He had been captured, brought to Malfoy Manor, and now sat helpless in a room filled with Snatchers and Death Eaters eager to fall into good graces with the Dark Lord. But Draco had made a vow. He was the only one Killian trusted. Now that trust was being tested far beyond anything Draco could have anticipated.

"I can't—I can't be sure," he lied relatively convincingly.

He knew these words were devastating for his father, who so desperately wanted, _needed_ their disfigured captive to be Harry Potter. But even amidst the continued questioning and bantering between his father and Greyback, Draco held firm in his inability to identify the individual in question.

"I don't know," Draco insisted as he crossed the room and joined his mother by the fireplace.

He sought comfort, but felt little, as his mother, too, desperately needed for Draco to positively identify Harry. Amidst his unwillingness to say what they wanted to hear, however, the questions persisted.

"Wait," his mother pressed on. "Yes, yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

 _Hermione_ ... Never before had Draco felt such concern for a Mudblood. Of course, he had never before been placed in such a position. How could he _possibly_ get her out of this?

"I … maybe … yeah," he stammered.

He knew he could not completely deny recognizing her. His father had met the clever little nuisance on more than one occasion. Most recently during the battle within the Hall of Prophecy at the Ministry of Magic two years previous; an event which led to his father's incarceration at Azkaban. And now, with vengeance within his grasp, Lucius' only son finds himself to be the proverbial wrench within the cogs. For Draco had vowed to protect Hermione, and it was a vow he intended to keep no matter the cost.

Regardless of his intentions, his lies would not be the way. With his mind racing for answers, each path met with the same tragic end. Having no other options as his beck and call, Draco's only viable course of action was to stall until a suitable solution presented itself in some form or another.

"But then, that's the Weasley boy!" his father shouted, his voice overflowing with frenzied optimism. "It's them, Potter's friends! Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name-" But his words were lost on Draco, whose mind was anywhere but in the present.

"Yeah," he answered in an empty and awkward tone with his back towards Harry, Hermione, and Ron. He could not look at them. "It could be."

Then, just when Draco thought the moment had reached its zenith in hollowed hopelessness, Draco's aunt entered the room. In a blink, the situation deteriorated into chaotic madness as Bellatrix immediately took control, much to the contempt of Lucius. Arguments started over how, exactly, to handle the current circumstances. Level minds never seemed to exist among Death Eaters, and this was no exception.

The scene quickly shattered into disarray, with Bellatrix assaulting the room, taking out Scabior and his Snatchers while forcing Greyback to his knees. Things were very quickly getting out of hand, ending with Bellatrix insisting on personally questioning the Mudblood … Hermione … Killian's little Gryffindor … His vow … He had to think fast.

" _Torpeo sensus_ ," he whispered under his breath as he discretely directed his wand toward Hermione.

No one heard Draco's spell. His voice was drowned out by Ron's incessant wailing for Hermione as he and Harry were forcefully escorted from the room. Now Draco could only hope it was effective and that Hermione was clever enough to recognize it. Although deep down he knew he did not have to worry about the latter. As much as it sickened him to admit it, Draco knew that Killian would never love a fool.

Like his stalling, however, this would still only provide a temporary fix. It would not provide a solution, and Draco knew he was running out of time.

. . .

Hermione sat there, helpless and hopeless, surrounded by those who wished nothing but harm upon her and all those with whom she stood. Draco, Lucius, Narcissa, Bellatrix, Greyback … Hopeless. Harry and Ron had been led down to the cellar, prisoners within the bowels of this hellish house of horrors … She was alone.

Bellatrix paced in front of Hermione, evaluating her prey with a contemplative glare. Suddenly, without a word, she drew her wand.

" _Crucio_!" she shrieked, her eyes wide and maniacal.

Hermione screamed as she felt the effects of the Unforgivable Curse. It was a searing pain that pounded through her body with unrelenting rage. It felt as though the very fibers of her inner self were being shredded in tortuous sequence.

Yet, amidst it all, something seemed wrong … Or right, as far as Hermione was concerned. Her mind, against all logic, remained clear. It was as if her senses guiding thought and pain had severed, each remaining independent of each other. Even with her body being ravaged beyond limits any person could endure, Hermione's mind remained safe and focused, undamaged by what was occurring around it.

But such a thing was not possible. How was it occurring? Was it possible that Bellatrix's curse had gone awry?

No matter the cause, the maniacal witch did not appear to notice, leaning in with furious rage. Amidst her paralyzing fear, Hermione saw this as an opportunity, realizing it was better to play along rather than let on that Bellatrix's attempt at torture was not completely effective.

After several moments, Bellatrix relented, only to follow through again. It was more pain than Hermione had ever experienced, blinding and encompassing. Still, she managed to summon the strength to maintain consciousness and complete focus; something she knew to be near impossible when being assaulted by the Cruciatus Curse.

After the second round ceased, Bellatrix finally addressed her captive, pressing her forehead into Hermione's and piercing her eyes with a fiery gaze. "Where did you get the sword?" she asked in a soft, saccharine tone.

How to play this? Hermione knew she could not just say something outright. That would be suspicious. She had to buy time to think. Saying nothing, she simply shook her head timidly, prompting Bellatrix to spin away and release another unforgivable wave.

Hermione screamed in pain, now straining her larynx.

"I'm going to ask you again!" Bellatrix went on, far more aggressive this time. "Where did you get the sword? Where!"

"We found it," Hermione offered, deciding a little more info was necessary this round if she wished to come off as believable. "We found it … please!"

Bellatrix, unsatisfied with the response, continued with her sadistic assault. "You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it!" she shouted. "You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, _tell the truth_!"

Gringotts? Hermione made a mental note as she continued to struggle against the curse, wondering how it was that she was neither dead nor comatose by now. It was then that she noticed Draco standing inconspicuously in the corner. He was mumbling under his breath, his wand twitching slightly at his side. Odd. What was he doing? Could he … No, he wouldn't … Would he?

"What else did you take? What else have you got?" Bellatrix went on. "Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

Hermione continued to fight with all the strength she could summon, her throat stinging as her body was being utterly consumed. Through it all, she kept a watchful eye on Draco. What was he doing?

"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix's voice was searing as she pressed her wand into Hermione's temple. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

"We only met him tonight," Hermione answered quickly, fearing that Bellatrix may unleash her fury on Griphook. "We've never been inside your vault … it isn't the real sword," she added, thinking it was time to alter her explanation a bit. "It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" Bellatrix cackled as she retreated a step. "Oh, a likely story."

"Lies," Greyback piped in.

"Of course they're lies," Bellatrix agreed. "Potter's brood … liars, traitors, cowards, the whole lot of them. And everyone knows that you are all affiliates, aren't you?" she added as she leaned in on Hermione.

The Dark witch's words fell upon Hermione with the grace of several hundred bricks. Affiliates … Affiliates … Off in the corner, she watched as Draco's lips continued to mumble under his breath … _Affiliates_.

"But we can find out easily," came Lucius' voice, although Hermione could barely make it out. Her mind was swirling, images coming in and out of focus. _Affiliates_ …

 _His father and my father are affiliates …_

She could hear Draco's voice in her head, see him standing in the dark confines of the dungeons. _Affiliates_ … A face, hallowed and smirking … He was there … It was not a dream … Hermione's head began to pound as she wrestled to retain the thought, the memory. What was it? She could not think. A name passed through her consciousness, but wisped away as quick as it came, leaving Hermione to grasp desperately at it with the futility of catching smoke within her fingers.

Suddenly, and without warning, she felt weak and disorientated, her vision becoming blurred.

"Draco, fetch the goblin," Lucius went on. "He can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

Hermione looked at Draco, numb to the world around her. He was startled, turning towards his father and reluctantly obeying. As Draco left, Hermione felt wave of nauseating pain roll over her; an aching sensation that normally followed a severe beating.

 _It can't be_ , Hermione thought. _Draco_? Was he really … No, there had to be some other explanation.

Not willing to take a chance in her weakened state, Hermione fell to the floor like a lifeless marionette that had been cut from its strings. Her only hope at the moment was that Bellatrix believe her curses had pushed the young Gryffindor beyond her physical limit. However unimaginable, if Draco had been casting a protective spell over her, it was broken the moment he left the room. If Bellatrix continued her questioning, the outcome would be severe.

As Hermione lay there, she overheard Bellatrix commenting on the pathetic frailty of Mudbloods. It infuriated her, but she had little choice but to lie still and wait it out.

She heard Draco return with Griphook, of whom Bellatrix inquired about the authenticity of the sword. Incredibly, she then heard Griphook conclude the sword was, indeed, a fake. His deception only brought a moment's relief, however, as Bellatrix then indicated that now was the time to summon the Dark Lord.

"And I think," she added maliciously, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

An instant later, the room erupted into chaos. Although she could barely see, Hermione heard Ron and Harry burst into the room. Still too drained to ably offer any assistance, she remained on the floor, opening her eyes just enough to see Draco as he cast jinxes wildly about the drawing room. Again, it appeared strange to her. Either his aim was ridiculously unskilled or … No … She simply could not believe it.

 _Not much about him that I don't know …_

Hermione felt a pain flowing through her … Not physical … Something different … Draco's words … _Were_ they Draco's words? ... She could not seem to remember ... They hurt her … Tore at her … She wanted them to stop.

Moments later, she felt herself being dragged to her feet. Words were spoken, but she could not make them out. A sudden sensation of steel against her flesh indicated knife being pressed to her throat. Bellatrix, she assumed. More words … Indecipherable. The Dark Lord was coming … Harry … Another sound from above … Grinding.

Hermione fell to the floor seconds before an immense pressure crashed down upon her. This time, she truly was losing consciousness. More images flashed through her mind … A Garden … A library … She had seen it before … Standing in the rain. Another voice … Not Draco's … Calming … Soothing to Hermione.

 _Every moment that went by … every excruciating second since …_

He was real. He had to be. She could almost feel the warmth of an embrace. Then … nothing.

. . .

Draco looked on in horror as the chandelier crashed down upon Hermione and Griphook. Shards of broken glass flew through the air, cutting his face and causing him to double over. Things had gotten wildly out of control. His only thought was to get to Hermione, to get her safe. Before he could act, however, he was blindsided as Harry leapt over an armchair, wrestling away the wands Draco had confiscated earlier.

In that moment, every ounce of emotion within Draco wished for nothing more than to strike at Harry. Vow or not, Harry was not Hermione. Before he could act, however, Harry used the three wands to strike Greyback with a fierce jinx that sent him careening across the drawing room as Draco's mother dragged her son out of the way of any further harm. Scrambling to his feet, Draco then saw Ron pull Hermione from the wreckage of the chandelier. Dobby then appeared, causing further disruption and distraction.

"Get them the bloody hell out of here!" Draco gritted under his breath as he watched the scene unfolding.

As if hearing Draco's suggestion, Dobby Disapparated, taking Harry, Griphook, Ron, and Hermione with him. In frustrated desperation, Bellatrix flung her knife at the vanishing cluster of Mudbloods and Blood Traitors. Whether or not her knife found its target, Draco could not be certain. What he did know, however, was that the Dark Lord was on his way, and the serpentine sorcerer did not accept disappointments.

"I assume there is a _glorious_ explanation as to why I have been summoned away from my current undertakings."

The voice came from the doorway, out of Draco's line of vision. But he did not need to see the individual whose inquiry echoed in the silence of Malfoy manor. The chiseled expressions of fear and shame on the faces of the Death Eaters in the room offered an introduction far greater than any visual could represent.

. . .

Hours later, the Dark Lord was gone, having rained down a series of tortures the likes of which Draco had never witnessed in his most warped of nightmares. His mother, his father, his psychotic aunt … All but Draco were subjected to these acts of absolute and unforgiving fury. Draco's punishment for his hand in the events that took place was no less damaging, being forced to stand in silence while bearing witness to these atrocities as they were wrought upon his loved ones. It was a lesson in loyalty, a warning against failure.

Later, as Draco sat in his room, still feeling the lingering sting from the shards of glass he continued to pick from his skin, Kreacher entered and began to tidy the clutter. Draco hesitated for a moment, unsure whether or not to act. The hesitation was futile in the end, however. He knew where his loyalties were. He knew he could not let anything happen to her.

"Kreacher," Draco called to the decrepit house-elf. "I have a job for you."

"Of course." Kreacher bowed slightly. "Kreacher lives only to serves the Masters' wishes."

"I need you to find Killian," Draco explained. "And when you do …" He paused, collecting himself with a deep cleansing breath. "You're to give him a message."

"Impossibles," Kreacher apologized. "Kreacher does not knows wheres to go."

Crossing the room towards his writing desk, Draco began to search through varies piles of papers and scraps, crumpled and otherwise. After a moment, he came up with a stack of missives, bounded together by a thin leather strap. Unwrapping the letters, he began scanning their contents.

"Since Barabbas' death, Killian has been tracking Vetis and Verin," he explained. "At least he had been the last time he sent word. My father mentioned they tend to lurk around the old mausoleums in the outskirts of northern Britain along the coast of Edinburgh. And I know Killian has been out that way." Finding the letter he was seeking, Draco dropped the remaining parchments and read through the penned lines. "Here it is," he said before handing the parchment to Kreacher. "He wrote of a number of places he'd already been. So you need not worry of them in your search."

"Still though, many graveyards," Kreacher went on. "Many mausoleums."

"Then search quickly!" Draco snapped.

"Of course, Masters," Kreacher conceded with dignified obedience. "Whats is the message?"

"Tell him," Draco began and then stopped. "Tell him that Hermione is safe … For now. But _You-Know-Who_ is gathering his army and soon they'll be heading to Hogwarts. That being so, it likely means that Potter—" Draco paused again and nearly spat at the mention of Harry's name. "—Potter will be on his way there as well." Sighing heavily, he pulled another shard from his face as he stared out the window into the darkness of the surrounding sky. "… As will Hermione."

"Yes, Masters," Kreacher concluded with a noble bow just before he Disapparated with a crisp snap.


	14. Chapter 14 - The Deadpan Twins

_Finally, another post is up. It has been a bit. But it's a long chapter, so maybe that makes up for it. No? Yeah, probably not. Regardless, we are slowly starting to make it towards that finish line. Getting down to the nitty and the gritty. There is actually a little bit of both in this post. And I will admit, this chapter kind of creeped me out when I wrote it, so apologies in advance for anyone who feels the same._

 _At any rate, I hope you enjoy ..._

 _\- Chapter Fourteen -_

 _The Deadpan Twins_

Hermione stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea as waves gently rolled in with rhythmic determination. Wrapped in a warm wool blanket, she allowed the salty sea air to fill her lungs, each breath feeling like a hopeless struggle to hold onto an emotion that was pulling free from her grasp of reality versus fantasy. It was such a beautiful view. And, in truth, it was such a beautiful feeling. But was it real? Was any of it real anymore?

Closing her eyes, Hermione recalled her most recent encounter with the stranger who filled her nights of slumber with happiness and hope only to torment her days with his absence. As with most of their time together, the details were in and out of focus. All but him. He had become so clear, so vivid. His fine dark hair, the curve of his lips in their arrogant grin, his brilliantly green eyes that saw right through to her very soul … She could lose herself in his features alone, if only it were possible.

From what she could make out of everything else, Hermione believed they were at Hogwarts, although where exactly within those walls she could not be certain. It was a secluded area, devoid of students aside from each other. Hermione was organizing various buttons and pamphlets for her Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare as her stranger playfully teased her and her passion for equal rights.

" _Quality propaganda or not, I'm not certain this little endeavor of yours will ever garner a following."_

 _Little_ … How she wanted to strike at him for using that word. Strike at him and then wrap her arms around his body, feeling the warmth of his skin pressed to hers.

"You might find yourself surprised," Hermione quipped as she turned her nose in the air.

" _I might also find myself with a grossly misshapen hand protruding from my forehead … I find either scenario to be equally plausible."_

This time Hermione did strike at him, albeit playfully. "How can you be so unfeeling?" she asked.

" _I felt that."_

"You know what I'm referring to," she said. "Are you seriously saying that you have no care or concern for the rights and wellbeing of elves?"

" _I'd like them to stay healthy enough to work."_

His jestful audacity was almost unbearable.

"I mean it," Hermione pressed. "If this school were burning to the ground, you would do nothing to help?"

" _In a situation as such, I would tell them to get out … Can't very well order them to die, can we now?"_

Hermione slapped at him several times with him laughing as he grasped for her hands with each strike. After several failed attempts, it became more intimate as Hermione and her stranger tumbled to the floor within each other's embrace. It was exactly where she wanted to be, exactly the way she wanted to feel, in that very moment and for the rest of her life.

"Ey," Ron called as he walked up to Hermione from the direction of the cottage.

His voice startled Hermione into clarity. Opening her eyes and returning her gaze towards the ocean's horizon, she hugged her blanket firmly around her.

"You all right?" he asked as he joined her by the water.

"Yes, of course," Hermione answered, sounding more short than she intended.

Looking uncomfortable to the point one would have to be blind not to notice, Ron stood beside Hermione with his hands in his pockets as they quietly observed the endlessly rolling waves of the hypnotic waters.

"You seem a bit … Um …" Ron began, but fell short of a complete thought. "I … Ah …" he began again to the same end. "Chilly, isn't it?" he finally settled upon.

"A little," Hermione said.

"Do you want me to get you—" Ron started.

"I'm fine," Hermione asserted before Ron could finish his offer.

She knew she was being short with him. It was not her intention. She was simply in a strange place emotionally at the moment and she could not process how to handle it. Seeing Ron standing there somehow made it even more difficult still.

"Ron?" she finally asked after several more moments of awkward silence between them.

"Yeah?" Ron piped up with a hopeful tone.

"Do you …" Hermione began before pausing and questioning whether she truly wanted to continue down this path. "Do you remember skipping stones by the Black Lake?"

"Skipping stones?" Ron asked with a puzzled look etched in his expression that was made even more evident basked in the moonlight reflecting off the waters.

"Sneaking out of the castle at night," Hermione went on. "Keeping to the shadows to avoid the prefects, using darkness as cover …" She glanced down, watching as the water climbed the sand towards her toes, only to retreat back towards the sea. "Coming up along the water and skipping stones to simple and meaningless conversations about absolutely nothing."

Ron reached down and grabbed one of the numerous stones lying along the beach, polished by the waves and weather to a smooth oval finish. "Done a bit of sneaking, yeah," he said with a shrug. "But not to skip any stones. Never been right good at it, I suppose. Nor a care for it. Doesn't seem to have a point, you know?"

As if demonstrating his thought process, Ron made a side-armed attempt as skipping his stone. Without so much as a deviation, it disappeared into the waves.

"You can't skip stones into a tide, Ron," Hermione said with little feeling.

"No," Ron agreed. "Probably not."

 _Not Ron …_ Hermione thought while watching her ginger-haired housemate make several more attempts at skipping stones into the breaking waves, his neck bare of any silver ring on a necklace. _He's not Ron …_

. . .

In the months since the Colossus fell, Killian had been scouring the northern countryside, spending his nights in damp and frigid graveyards, waiting. He knew it would be a daunting task to find them, but just how daunting he could not have imagined. In truth, the delay in discovering their whereabouts had done Killian well, allowing much needed time to rest and heal. Still, the frustration lingered.

While his body mended and his mind settled, Killian was also left with ample time to contemplate all that had occurred over the previous year. Kane. Barabbas. He really knew nothing of them, save for their connection to Tanzar. For unexplained reasons, he recently felt the need to know more; asking questions, learning of his adversaries. He had never seen them as people, only enemies. He had never thought of a world before their lives crossed paths.

Kane had been a student at Hogwarts many years ago. The scars all about his body were the unfortunate result of a dangerous spell cast by an unskilled young wizard. There had been a fight in the courtyard, and Kane, a fourth-year at the time, had come to the aid of a second-year. As a reward for his actions, he was the recipient of a botched Bulbous Jinx. However, instead of swelling the cheeks and ears, the jinx began to shrink the skin all about Kane's body to the point that it tore away from itself, stretching beyond its limits over his skeletal frame. He was rushed to the hospital wing, where the jinx was alleviated. By that time, however, the damage had been done.

Enduring pain so severe it drove him to insanity, Kane spent the next several years in an asylum before being forcefully released during the Dark Lord's rise to power. A mentally unstable wizard would certainly have been an asset to the army of Death Eaters growing exponentially at the time.

Barabbas, too, had a story. He was born in Austria and never actually attended school at all. His parents dying tragically when he was of a young age, he spent his youth in an orphanage of ill repute. An overactive pituitary gland not only accounted for his enormous size, but also restricted and eventually severed his vocal chords. Killian's thoughts about Barabbas' lack of speech appeared to be well founded after all.

For Barabbas, however, his life only got worse. He was an outcast in the orphanage, mocked and ridiculed for his size and perceived lack of intelligence. The real pity of it was the fact that the people who volunteered at the orphanage often spoke of how kind-hearted and selfless Barabbas had been as a child, always willing to ration his share when food was scarce, always willing to make the sacrifice, to give of himself.

When he was of age and sent off on his own, he found the outside world to be just as cruel and judgmental as the orphanage. He could find no work better than that of a service hand in the lowest tiers of society. Although kicked and spat upon wherever he lay his head, Barabbas carried on, refusing to be brought down by the world around him.

It was then that he met Tanzar, a young Death Eater with ambition. Tanzar befriended the Colossus, trained him, filling his head with thoughts of anger and propaganda until his mind was warped and twisted into a mass of rage and fury. The innocent child in Barabbas was washed away, replaced by the monstrosity that brought about death and destruction in his wake.

The more Killian learned, the more he agonized over it. They had been children once. Pure and innocent. They did not ask for their lives, it was thrust upon them.

The knowledge of it all filled Killian with a sense of guilt he had never experienced. How far they had fallen. How far had _he_ fallen? Was there really that much of a difference between himself and those he had hunted? They murdered his family. He killed them in return. Vengeance. Perhaps they were better off, freed from the world that had corrupted and destroyed them. Perhaps he was the one to suffer now.

Nothing was simple, nothing was black and white, right or wrong. Until that moment, Killian had never understood that. Now that he did, he mourned for them … Mourned for his fallen enemies … Kane and Barabbas ...

Not everything Killian learned brought about such regret, however. Verin and Vetis. The Deadpan Twins. Apathy in the flesh.

They were raised in a wealthy family, given every pleasure imaginable. Theirs were minds that needed no corruption. They were born with an evil that brewed from deep within their empty souls, preying upon the weak, the weary, those who would not be missed if they were to disappear. The Dark Lord's rise to power did nothing but further fuel the brothers' unquenchable thirst for blood.

For these brothers, incarnates of the darkest and most unimaginably sadistic elements of human existence, Killian felt no sympathy. He would not mourn. As he lurked in the shadows of the decaying mausoleum that would keep him company for the night, he knew he would not mourn.

Having spent so many nights surrounded by the dead, Killian had almost become accustomed to the silence. This night, however, the silence would be broken. He was not alone.

"Cold and quiet," Verin hissed. "Let us do it now!"

"Patience, Verin," Vetis said calmly. "A child's mind is a beautiful instrument. Let us dance and play with it for a time."

Killian peered into the collapsing rotunda. There he saw, illuminated in the pale moonlight that shone through the fallen windows, Verin and Vetis pacing in circles around a small child, who shivered uncontrollably. Whether it was fear or temperature that was causing the reaction, Killian could not be sure, but the sight sickened him.

"I w-want to g-go home," the small boy whimpered.

"Oh, but you _are_ home," Vetis said in a frightfully soothing tone as he leaned over the child and ran his finger across the boy's delicate cheek.

"Yes, home," Verin added as he spun around to one of the open chambers in the wall of the rotunda. "And we've already set your room," he added with a flick of his wand, causing the chamber's coffin to eject from the wall and spill its contents across the damp marble floor.

The boy shuddered further as pathetic little sounds emanated from his clenched lips.

Vetis grinned, his ebony eyes matching the dark silkiness of his hair. "Do not tremble, child. You will enjoy it here with us."

" _We_ will enjoy _you_ here with us," Verin added as a poignant correction.

"Shall we see your eyes, child?" Vetis asked with no expectant answer.

"I want to _take_ them!" Verin begged, his eyes wide and ablaze with excitement.

"Fair enough," Vetis allowed. "They are yours. But his body is mine."

Vetis stepped aside as Verin swooped in, sending a bolt from the end of his wand careening towards the cowering child. As the bolt was upon him, a brilliant wall of white light emanated from the air, surrounding the boy and deflecting the bolt into the rotunda wall.

"Impossible!" Verin shrieked in frustration. "He is a _Muggle_!"

"Yes," Vetis agreed, focusing over Verin's shoulder. "No magic in the Muggles … But we are not alone, Verin. We are not alone."

Verin spun around and saw the object of Vetis' focus. Across the rotunda, Killian stood defiantly with his staff directed upon the Deadpan Twins.

Verin's face suddenly softened. "The _Hunter_ has arrived," he said, licking his lower lip in anticipation.

"Yes," Vetis added. "Stalked us."

"Found us," Verin hissed.

Killian was reminded of how the Fred and George spoke in such a manner, adding to each other's comments and finishing each other's sentences. He had always found it so amusing. Now, however, the practice had an entirely different effect.

"You have come to play, have you?" Vetis asked as his brother joined him at his side.

"We should kill him," Verin whispered in Vetis' ear. " _Feast_ upon him!"

"You must forgive my brother," Vetis apologized. "He can be impulsive and reckless. I, on the other hand, have much more thought."

"Words," Verin gritted. "Too many _words_. We should _take_ him!"

"Why waste such a specimen?" Vetis grinned, narrowing his eyes and glancing Killian over. "Young and virile. Strong and defined. Such a beautiful moment we could share."

"Then I shall kill the Muggle child!" Verin snapped, drawing his wand upon the boy.

Before he could enact his curse, however, Verin was catapulted to the ceiling and thrust down into the far corner of the rotunda, compliments of Killian's aggressive attack.

"Here," Killian called to the child, his eyes and staff now locked upon Vetis, who stared at Killian with growing anticipation.

The boy quickly ran to Killian and hid behind him, clutching at the dark Slytherin's tattered coat. By this time, Verin had regained his composure and returned to his brother's side, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth.

"I shall eat of his flesh!" he threatened.

"All in good time," Vetis promised. "His flesh may be yours if he chooses that path. We may share in his flesh. We may grow stronger."

"Yes ..." Verin grinned. "We _will_ grow stronger."

As Killian stood before the Deadpan Twins, a thoughts passed through his mind. Kane. Barabbas. A tinge of guilt. A passing moment of lament for the fallen wizards. But Killian did not stand before Kane. He did not stand before Barabbas. He stood before incarnate of malevolence … Maltreats and murders of children … Cannibals … He stood before evil in its purest of forms.

"There is no need for you to die this night," Vetis offered. "We can play. Such fun we might have. Have you considered this?"

"Find a place to hide," Killian whispered to the terrified boy who trembled behind him.

"He has not considered, has he?" Verin chastised. "He has not considered at all."

"Perhaps you are correct," Vetis agreed. "He does not speak to us. Just stares without fear or emotion. We are the same, are we not, Hunter?"

"He is the Hunter," Verin pointed out maliciously. "He wants _action_ , not words, not _playthings_. Have I judged you, little boy Finn?"

"It appears as such," Vetis said, drawing his wand. "He wishes vengeance. He wishes to smite us."

"We shall _smite_ him!" Verin spat as he launched towards Killian, red sparks erupting from his wand.

"Go!" Killian shouted to the boy, who ran for cover behind a portion of the marble wall that had given way and created a small pile of debris against the wall.

Killian was easily able to deflect and counter Verin's attack, causing the dark sorcerer to alter his direction. He then turned on Vetis, who stood impassively in his place and attacked with a fury of firebolts. As soon as the spell was cast, Vetis Disapparated, Apparating behind Killian and sending the disoriented Slytherin face-first into the marble wall.

They were fast and calculating, working in tandem with the smoothness of silk, lethal as a viper pit. Apparating and Disapparating in conjunction with each other, never in the same space for more than a moment. He could only hope that his reflexes could match theirs, that he could analyze their attack, anticipate their movements. Currently, it was not working out as anticipated.

The dome of the rotunda burst into a cloud of swirling flames and ash that rained fire down upon Killian. It was nothing new. He had seen it before and was easily able to raise a defensive spell. They were toying with him. Special effects. They overestimated their advantage, and this worked quite well for Killian. He could easily parry the child's play they offered, allowing him time to think.

After shielding the fire and ash, Killian reversed the spell, conjuring a storm cloud that wrought lightning and rain, extinguishing the fires and soaking the Deadpan Twins. This would have little effect but to annoy and humiliate his adversaries; adversaries riddled with vanity. It was a deadly sin, and Killian would use against them.

After they had been saturated, Killian followed the rains with a vortex of swirling dust, caking Verin and Vetis in filth that clung to their sodden clothes, hair, and skin.

"Enough!" Vetis shouted, his temper finally being ignited and joining that of Verin.

With a violent wave, he decimated the dust storm and the room, once again, fell into a silence befitting the dead.

"We shall play no more games!" he promised in an exclamatory tone that brought a grin to Killian's face.

He had broken them. They would now attack with uncontrolled passion.

"Finally," Verin hissed. "Finally, we shall have him, brother?

"No," Vetis corrected. "First his _soul_ … Then we shall have what is left."

Initially unsure as to meaning of this cryptic statement, once Killian felt the cold sensation filling the air it was made immediately clear. Verin had summoned Dementors; dozens of them. They flooded the rotunda, encircling Killian as they sensed his presence. Lacking any human emotion upon which the dark creatures yearned to feed, Vetis and Verin were essentially invisible to the Dementors; something they certainly understood very well prior to calling upon Azkaban's former jailers.

"Where is your Patronus?" Verin mocked as Killian stood firm, his staff at the ready.

"We have not forgotten Saarla Manor," Vetis explained, his calm apathetic expression returning.

Verin grinned maliciously. "No defenses."

"No defenses at all," Vetis added.

Contrary to their beliefs, however, Killian did not succumb to the hoard of shriveled monstrosities in tattered cloaks. While he felt a pressure in his body and the chill in the air, his mind remained clear. In a sudden moment of clarity, he came to realize he was in no need of a Patronus. Hermione, the only memory that held any hint of warmth and happiness, was a memory surrounded by pain and longing, sealed away and protected from the Dementors' hunger. Like the Verin and Vetis, Killian found himself immune.

"I'm afraid your Dementors will not feed this night," Killian said defiantly.

"Such anger," Vetis clicked.

"I must have him!" Verin begged, visually excited at the thoughts of ravaging Killian's corpse.

"You shall have him in time," Vetis promised before returning his attention to Killian. "Perhaps they will not feed upon you … But what of the child, I wonder?"

Killian spun around towards the debris of collapsed marble, the reality of Vetis' words hitting him squarely in the gut. He saw the boy pinned to the wall, the Dementor's Kiss being applied as the child struggled in vain to escape the creatures icy clutches.

In the throes of battle, Killian had forgotten the child was there. Now, he had to act fast, had to think. He had no defense against the Dementors, no attack that would … Perhaps … Too dangerous … No alternative.

" _Eliste solas an lae_!" Killian commanded, falling to his knees and thrusting his staff into the cold marble below him.

Killian was now encircled by waves of electricity that coruscated and crackled as a small luminescent orb appeared high above the center of the rotunda floor. He continued to grip his staff, concentrating his sight upon the orb as it grew in both luminosity and dimension, pulsing and humming until the darkness had become like day. Amidst the barrage of energy, the Dementors shrieked and withered as the rays of light penetrated their decayed forms.

The spell lasted only seconds. Killian was not strong enough to hold on any longer, not skilled enough to have even safely attempted this Summoning Spell. However brief the effects were, though, they were long enough. As Killian collapsed on the marble floor, the room returned to darkness, devoid of even the slightest remnants of Dementors and the frigid air that accompanied them. But the damage was done. He had spent the last of his energy; weak and helpless. It was foolish. He had not saved the child. He had merely delayed the inevitable.

"Summoning the sun itself," Vetis complimented as he strode across the rotunda, poking at Killian with his foot. "Absolutely incredible … A boy your age? Such power. Such a waste."

"Yes," Verin added. "A waste and a pity. But we shall gain from it," he went on as he leaned in to strike at Killian.

"Hold, brother!" Vetis chastised. "The child is yours. You wished for his eyes. This one is mine for first pickings."

"I apologize for my haste," Verin acknowledged as he turned his focus on the shivering child, who lay slumped against the wall where the Dementor had relinquished its grip on him. "The eyes ... The pretty little eyes. I shall take them now!"

Killian lay helpless. For a fraction of a second, time stood still. But within that moment, a thousand thoughts passed through his consciousness. It was not over. It could not be over. He was weak, broken, but he was still alive. He gripped Hermione's ring firmly in his fist as he lay there. It was _not_ over!

" _Reducto_!" he shouted as he drew his staff upon Verin, striking him firmly in the back and thrusting his defenseless body into the wall beyond the boy.

The move was in desperation. Pain surged through his body as the spell was pulling from reserves that Killian was unaware even existed. This action would not go unpunished, however as Vetis lifted Killian with a flick of his wand.

"Foolish ..." he said with a calmly dismissive sigh as he tossed the weakened Slytherin aside with disgust. "This could have been rather painless."

Even through the pain, Killian's mind continued to churn. Verin was impatient, acting without thought. Vetis had the stronger will of the two, forfeiting action in trade for the opportunity to corrupt, to crush the spirit. He controlled his brother, kept him in check.

Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Killian struggled to his feet as Vetis approached with a purpose. Verin Apparated and joined his brother's side. Killian knew that he would not be able to handle another joint offensive. He needed to even the odds.

" _Plures speculum_!" Killian commanded.

In an instant, hundreds of mirrors began to pour out of the air, hovering and passing between each other throughout the rotunda, casting infinite reflections of Killian and the Deadpan Twins. Disapparation or not, they would have the same difficulties locating him as he would have locating them.

"Very clever, little boy," Vetis offered as a mock compliment. "But only a slight inconvenience in the end. We will find you."

"We will find you!" Verin shouted. "And we will _have_ you!"

That was his mark. Verin. Killian did not have the strength to effectively engage them. A different tactic would be in order. He parried his way through the reflections, every so often hearing an explosion of wood and glass indicating that one of his reflections had been attacked in futility. Each time he heard a mirror destroyed, he knew the rage in Verin was growing.

In stealth, Killian pursued Verin through the maze of mirrors, taking every opportunity to cast a jinx against his agitated foe. They did little more than annoy, but that was the intent. Killian knew he was going to run out of time. The mirrors would eventually be gone, and he had not the strength to summon more. Again, he found himself in a dangerous game of chess, and he was moving in to take the king.

"Come out, little boy Finn," Verin sang, now wearing several boils on his face from a jinx that had just been laid upon him. "Come out and play with Verin!"

As the words escaped his lips, Verin's hair began to smoke and erupt into flames. It took only a second for him to counter the jinx, but upon looking at the charred remains of his hair in the mirror before him, he snapped.

"Where are you?" he shouted in a rage, spinning about until he saw Killian at the end of a long line of mirrors, his staff drawn and at the ready. "I shall _end_ this! _Avada Kedavra_!"

A green jet sprang from his wand and hit Killian square in the chest causing the mirror upon which Killian's reflection was being cast to explode into tiny projectiles of glass and splintered wood. When the dust settled, the outline of Vetis came into view, his expression blank and emotionless, his eyes empty and staring out towards his brother before he slumped to the ground, lifeless and empty.

"No!" Verin cried.

Killian leapt from the shadows with his staff upon Verin. " _Sectumsempra_!" he cast with a fury, sending Verin colliding with the wall.

Killian had aimed for the chest, but missed his mark. The curse severed and disintegrated Verin's right arm and, with it, his wand as well. He only had one shot at the curse, having no energy left to follow through if it failed to find its target. But his aim was well enough to render his opponent defenseless. Killian leapt upon Verin, gripping his throat and squeezing the breath from him.

Verin's eyes became wide with fear as Killian increased his grip. He felt no remorse. He was not looking upon a man. He was looking upon a demon. As Verin twitched helplessly, Killian thought of the victims … The weak, the helpless … _Children_ … Their innocence stolen, their lives destroyed and taken. The child. What would have happened had Killian not been there? What pains would he have suffered? How many had suffered before? The thoughts enraged Killian beyond fury.

It was not long before Verin ceased his struggle under Killian's vise, his remaining hand falling limp at his side, his eyes staring outward, seeing nothing. Killian dropped the shell of flesh that once held the demon. It was done. They would never harm another child.

Stepping back from Verin's corpse, Killian fell to the ground. Rolling over to his back and gazing upwards, he saw the moon glowing brilliantly through a hole in the domed ceiling. Almost immediately, he felt a tiny hand gripping him as the child scurried to his side, huddling next to Killian for some form of comfort amidst the chaos that had just ensued.

"Are you all right?" Killian asked, straining to turn his head and look upon the child.

"I want to go home," the boy quivered.

"I know," Killian said in as consoling a voice as he could muster. "I just need to rest for a moment. You're safe now … I promise."

With that Killian returned his gaze to the night sky. It was so clear, so still. It was the most mesmerizing thing that he had seen in a long time. He wondered why he had never noticed the simple beauty of it before. His hand made its way up his chest to Hermione's ring that had, somehow, managed to remain secure on his necklace. Where was she this night? Did she see this sky? Had she noticed its beauty as well? _Hermione_ …

"Friend of Masters?" came a droll and raspy voice that echoed through the rotunda.

Instinctively, Killian sprang upwards, shielding the boy under his arm. In the far shadows, the small outline of a house-elf strode slowly into view.

"Kreacher?" Killian called out.

"Is Kreacher, yes," Kreacher returned. "Kreacher searches and searches for friend of Masters. Finds at last."

"What are you doing here?" Killian asked, uncertain as of what to expect.

"Message from Masters," Kreacher answered as he finally reached Killian, bowing slightly.

"Message?" Killian asked on. "From Draco?"

"Yes," Kreacher acknowledged. "About your Mudblood."

"Hermione?" Killian sat up straighter, ignoring the pain bursting through his nerves. "What happened? Is she all right?"

"The Mudblood is well for now," Kreacher answered. "Only for now. The Dark Lord prepares. Will goes to Hogwarts. Then Mudblood and Blood Traitors will goes to Hogwarts as well, or so Masters thinks. All not well then, _Kreacher_ thinks. Not well for Mudblood, so not well for friend of Masters either."

"How long ago?" Killian asked.

"Kreacher looks for friend of Masters for many weeks," Kreacher answered.

The beauty of the night sky faded from Killian's mind. He would not have the luxury of the rest he so desperately needed. Time was short … If there was even any time left at all.

"Kreacher," Killian instructed. "You must do something for me."

"Masters instructed Kreacher to do as friend of Masters requests," Kreacher said with another slight bow.

"You must make certain this child gets home safely," Killian explained. The boy gripped Killian firmly, looking upon Kreacher with the same fear he had shown of Verin and Vetis. "Don't be afraid," Killian comforted, running his hand across the boy's forehead. "This was all just a nightmare. You will awaken tomorrow and realize that none of this was real and you are safe in your bed. Besides, Kreacher only looks mean and ugly. He is quite harmless, I assure you."

"Friend of Masters belittles Kreacher in front of the Muggle," the obedient house-elf acknowledged with a sigh. "Kreacher accepts it."

"Nonsense," Killian said, patting Kreacher on the head. "I meant that in the most endearing way possible."

As Killian stood and took a few paces to stretch his aching body, the child slowly walked towards Kreacher and took his hand, which Kreacher had reluctantly offered with another disgusted sigh.

"Where will friend of Masters go?" Kreacher asked.

"To settle a score," Killian answered before Disapparating from sight.


	15. Chapter 15 - Killian's Final Lesson

_And another post is up in relatively rapid succession. Well, it wasn't as slow as some of the previous posts have been. But here we are. Everyone has started to arrive at Hogwarts. It all comes down to this. Insert generic riling up the suspense cliche quote here._

 _But I digress ... Moving on ... I hope you enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Fifteen -_

 _Killian's Final Lesson_

Killian Apparated just outside the grounds of Hogwarts. He knew he would have to make the rest of the journey on foot. In his current state, he welcomed the walk. It gave him an opportunity to focus and recharge. He was far from one hundred percent, but had no time for such statistics. He had to get to Hogwarts.

Once he cleared the outer wall of the Hogwarts' grounds, the haunting image of the castle emerged from the dark backdrop of the Black Lake and surrounding woods. It had been nearly a year since he had laid eyes upon the school. A rush of memories and emotions surged through Killian; memories and emotions he immediately pushed away. They would be distracting.

Regaining his composure, he continued on toward the bridge. Before he had even reached the halfway mark, however, he heard the shattering of glass from high along the far wall of the castle. Instinctively, he crouched down in the mist that hung low across the fields. It was then that he noticed a large bat-like shadow soaring through the night sky, retreating from Hogwarts and heading towards the outer wall. It was an image Killian recognized immediately. He had seen it many times before.

Once again pushing his emotions aside, he gave chase, following the darkness that streaked through the night until he was off Hogwarts grounds once again. There, the shadowy figure touched down in a clearing amidst the surrounding woods. From the the cover of a fallen tree, Killian watched as the figure straightened up and dusted his robes. At once, his mind was filled with an array of emotions … Pain … Anger … Betrayal.

"There is no need to lurk about in the shadows," Professor Snape assured with a sigh as he adjusted the ends of his sleeves. "Your approach lacked even the faintest amount of stealth, I'm afraid."

Killian stepped out from behind the tree and entered the clearing, his staff at his side, his grip firm and steady.

"Mr. Finn," Snape addressed as he turned towards Killian. "I must say that I am quite surprised to see you … _alive_. Although, from what I have heard, it is not for lack of trying."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you, Professor," Killian came back with a smirk far more ominous that it had ever been. "Trouble at the school?"

"I see that your arrogance has not subsided," Snape quipped. "But you do appear to have earned a portion of it. Kane … Barabbas … Strong adversaries. You have developed quite a reputation for _skill_ and _brutality_. However, I sincerely doubt that your reputation, alone, will serve you well against Vetis and Verin," he added with a raised eyebrow.

"Verin and Vetis should make tomorrow's _Prophet_ ," Killian said curtly. "But, I'm afraid—"

"That I will not have the pleasure of reading it?" Snape concluded. "How terribly cliché. I would have expected better from you. The twins have been dispatched, then?" he added. "No doubt the world is a better place without their unhinged debauchery and taste for fruit far beyond merely forbidden. So that leaves only Tanzar … The last man standing."

Killian tried to temper his anger, gritting his teeth and taking deep, calculated breaths. The apathetic expression on Snape's face made this task extraordinarily difficult.

"So I ask," Snape went on, "to what do I owe the _pleasure_ of your company?"

"I will not dignify that with an answer," Killian answered coolly.

"Will you not?" Snape chided.

"I'll admit this has come sooner than I had planned …" Killian began.

"Ah, yes," Snape concluded once again, increasing Killian's frustration. "But Potter, as it appears, has returned to Hogwarts. And accompanying him, of course … Your little _flower_."

"The timing has changed," Killian clarified, "but this moment was an inevitability."

"Do not fool yourself into believing you can stand to me!" Snape fired back in a tone so piercingly commanding Killian almost felt as though he was, once again, a student in Snape's potions class. "Such conclusions would be a mortal fiction in your healthiest of states, which you are _clearly_ not within."

"Great wizards," Killian said calmly as he adjusted his stance and drew up his staff, "can draw strength from their passions to sustain themselves in times of weakness."

"How wonderful that you paid attention," Snape drawled. "I would hate to think I had wasted my time with you."

"Yes, I paid attention," Killian assured. "I took in every word. Studied them, believed them, _trusted_ them!"

"Trust," Snape came back sharply, "is not an attribute I believe you have ever quite grasped."

"Maybe not," Killian agreed. "And maybe I'm better for that."

Killian stood across from Snape; the Apprentice facing his Mentor. The tension in the air was reaching its breaking point as the silence between the two burned through the air like a torrent of all consuming wildfire. Then, after glaring at Killian for what seemed like an eternity, Snape finally succumbed with a sigh, drawing his wand with a sharp flicking motion.

"Very well," he offered. "One _final_ lesson then, shall we?"

"Ready when you are, _Professor_ ," Killian glowered. " _Reducto_!"

So it began. The forest was alit with sparks of electricity and fire as the duel, fueled with fury and animosity, raged throughout the clearing. Killian was weak. He knew that. He would have to be clever, he would have to think.; far more than he had against any of his previous adversaries. Snape was too intelligent, too calculating, to be underestimated.

"Your form has improved," Snape commented drolly as he deflected one of Killian's curses with a calm and deliberate wisp of his wand. "How are your defenses?"

He raised his wand, and with it, the earth shook. Tree roots burst forth from the ground below Killian's feet, towering up and coming back down like menacing fingers of an unseen hand. Killian raised a defensive shield and countered with a pillar of fire that incinerated the overgrown shrubberies until they were nothing more that twitching piles of ash.

"More than adequate," he goaded. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Not without its charm," Snape goaded in return. "Yet, at the same time, somehow lacking in forethought."

Once again, Snape raised his wand, this time conjuring up a whirlwind that swept through the clearing, scattering the pile of fresh ash and blinding Killian. As Killian covered his eyes to block the piercing winds, he felt himself thrust backwards, falling to his back and sliding to a stop a good distance from adversary.

As the winds subsided, he leapt to his feet and turned to face Snape. The traitorous wizard stood apathetically on the far side of the clearing, readjusting his sleeves; a sight that infuriated Killian. On nothing more than impulse, he launched an attack that caught Snape off guard. Although the first several attacks were deflected away, he was forced to retreat a step, giving Killian just enough time to collect himself.

" _Glacialis levitas tempestas_!" Killian called out to the sky with his staff held high.

The clear sky became riddled with a swirling mass of clouds. The air turned frigid as lighting and hail rained down upon Snape in torrents of ice and explosions of electricity. Snape raised a Shielding Charm in time to protect himself, but even the great Headmaster of Hogwarts appeared in awe of the magnitude of the spell he was witnessing.

Killian could feel himself weakening, but saw that Snape's defenses were wearing down as well. He knew Snape would have to relinquish his defensive spell to counter the attack, waiting and watching for the precise moment. He had studied under Snape for years, learned his every move. Timing would be of great essence.

In an instant, he saw it. Snape whirled away, his defenses gone, and countered Killian's curse by Summoning a vortex that encompassed the clearing. Its gravitational pull absorbed the energies of the electrical storm, breaking it down before obliterating it completely. It was an effective counter, but a slow-developing one. Slow enough to allow Killian his one chance.

" _Nemus mancipium_!" he commanded.

The tree behind Snape came to life, its branches wrapping themselves around the apathetic sorcerer and binding him.

Killian moved in quickly, only to, once again, find himself on his back as Snape was able to counter the binding spell and retaliate with explosive force.

"Very well played, Mr. Finn," Snape commended dismissively, albeit slightly winded. "I am impressed—"

His words cut off as a stream of red light burst past his head, just missing his left ear. With a whirl, he turned towards the direction from whence it came, taking his attention off Killian for a split second.

" _Expelliarmus_!" Killian cast from his back.

Snape's wand was wrenched from his grip, arching towards Killian's waiting hand. Disarmed, Snape stood defenseless as Killian got to his feet and slowly approached, his staff and Snape's own wand drawn upon the fallen mentor. This was it. This was the moment. Retribution. For Hogwarts. For Dumbledore. For himself. He raised his staff, ready to strike. A moment's hesitation …

" _The question is how far you're willing to go to get what you want …"_

Dolohov's words echoed through Killian's conscience as he stood to strike down Professor Snape … His Mentor … His Guide … The same words that had driven him forwards throughout everything he had endured on his quest for vengeance. But how far was he truly willing to go?

The hesitation was a mere fraction of a second. But in that time, a rustle emerged from the surrounding trees.

" _Expelliarmus_!"

Now it was Killian who found himself made defenseless by an unseen adversary. He spun around, looking to find whom had cast the spell. One by one he saw more than a dozen Death Eaters Apparate into the clearing. Defeated, Killian turned back towards Snape, who had recovered his wand and now held Killian's staff as well.

"You aw'right, Severus?" one of the Death Eaters inquired as the others encircled Killian.

"Quite," Snape replied. "Your timing is impeccable, Leopold."

"Appears so," Leopold said with a toothy grin, yellowed and decayed. "Who do we have 'ere?" he went on as he walked over to Killian and looked him over.

"Killian Finn," Snape answered.

"Finn?" Leopold queried. "Tanzar's Finn?"

"The same," Snape assured. "Although I believe he goes by the _Hunter_ these days."

"The Hunter?" Leopold chortled. "This little whelp? You must have yer knickers crossed, Snape! This one couldn't hunt squirrels with a zip gun, could yeh, boy?" he added as he leaned in and eyed Killian crossly.

"It is not wise to underestimate," Snape informed as he strode over towards Killian. "Mr. Finn is a pupil of mine—"

"Former pupil," Killian corrected tersely.

"However so," Snape conceded, narrowing his eyes at Killian. "I can assure you he is more than adequately equipped."

"Well, he seems to have fared better 'en the rest of his kin anyhow," Leopold said with a smirk towards Killian. "Ain't that right, Hunter?"

With a sharp motion, Killian thrust his forehead squarely into Leopold's nose. The twisted wizard fell backwards, howling in pain and holding his hand to his face as a stream of blood poured from his nostrils. The encircling Death Eaters drew in closer to Killian, their wands drawn upon him with menacing distain.

"You'll pay fer that, boy!" Leopold threatened as he scrambled to his feet and drew his wand.

"No, Leopold," Snape drawled. "I'm afraid _you_ will."

Killian was not sure who was more dumbfounded by Snape's remark, himself or Leopold. Leopold's face cocked sideways, as if he had not heard properly, just in time to catch Snape's jinx right between the eyes. In an instant, chaos erupted in the clearing. Snape tossed Killian his staff and the two of them squared off against the massive odds.

What was happening? It did not make sense. The situation, however, did not allow time to sort it through. As it stood, things did not look very promising.

Oddly enough, the simple mathematics of this melee did not appear to add up. Death Eaters were falling from their ranks, yet they were neither marks of Snape nor Killian. The air around them was alit with waves of energy that appeared to be coming from unknown sources. No sense at all.

As much as Killian hated to admit it, he and Snape worked well in tandem. Their moves and attacks complemented each other, blending together seamlessly. It should not have come as a surprise, as Killian's skills were forged from Snape's tutelage. Now, he found himself defending the back of the man who had betrayed him, while said traitor likewise defended his.

In a matter of minutes, the overwhelming odds diminished until the small army of Death Eaters had been reduced to a field of bodies, face down in the damp soil, leaving Killian and Snape to draw down on each other once again.

"Friends of yours?" Snape asked, his wand on Killian, but his eyes focused over his shoulder.

Killian turned and saw Wraith and Altimus emerging from the shadows. Altimus had his wand drawn and at the ready while Wraith carried what appeared to be some form of enchanted bow. In place of a bow string, there was a thin line of blue energy the petite sorceress had drawn back, ready to fire her spell with exploding force.

"No," Killian answered as he returned his glare upon Snape, who had lowered his wand and was now, once again, adjusting his sleeves apathetically.

"Pity," Snape said with a sigh. "The simple tragedy of the Lone Wolf is that, inevitably … he dies _alone_. When one is presented with strong allies, it is either foolish pride or mortal arrogance that turns them away. Upon which do you rely, I wonder?"

Killian had no response. Why had Snape lowered his wand? Why had he attacked the Death Eaters? Why had he saved him?

"An interesting choice in weaponry," Snape offered as he strode towards Wraith, who kept her bow on him.

"Yeah, she fused her wand with the bow," Altimus explained. "Was going on and on about this one's shillelagh," he added with a gesture towards Killian. "A bit rough in the beginning, but she's been working on it. Has her mark down pretty well."

"I'm quite certain she has," Snape conceded. "First shot was a bit off target, no?"

"Had I wanted, you would be dead," Wraith assured with a fiery focused glare.

"An _insolent_ little canary, aren't you?" Snape came back, narrowing his eyes at Wraith as she stood there indignantly.

"You have no idea," Altimus chortled.

"Enough!" Killian finally shouted. "This is not over!"

"Do you still insist on continuing?" Snape asked. "Until this day, I had not realized how far your skills outweighed your intelligence."

"You murdered Dumbledore!" Killian went on. "You betrayed us all!"

"Did I?" Snape asked.

"Do not play games with me," Killian warned. "I am no longer your student. This is not a lesson. I saw you … I saw you with my own eyes!"

"What you saw is what you were _meant_ to see," Snape corrected. "What everyone was _meant_ to see. In these times, our actions rarely have the opportunity to demonstrate our intentions or allegiances. Not that I owe you any explanation at all," he added crossly.

"Lies!" Killian shouted, trying to think around Snape's words. "I don't believe you!"

"Is that so?" Snape asked curtly. "You had your opportunity to strike me down, yet you hesitated … Why?"

Killian stammered, no real words escaping his lips. Why did he hesitate? Was it truly just a matter of just how many lines he was willing to cross, how far he was willing to go, how many lives he was willing to take? Or did he doubt himself? Did he doubt his perception of reality?

Snape killed Dumbledore. Killian knew this. So, why was everything in him begging him to trust his mentor? Reality had become so interwoven and contradictory. As Killian's eyes met Snape's cold glare, a realization set in. There was something there, behind those eyes. Snape was not as he seemed.

Slowly Killian lowered his staff, with Wraith mirroring his actions. The feelings of rage and anger melted away, being replaced by a flooding reflection of shame.

"Professor, I—" Killian began, his voice faltering into silence.

"Now is not the time for weakness," Snape asserted. "The Dark Lord and his army is sure to be making their way to Hogwarts. There is much to be done."

"Leopold mentioned Tanzar?" Killian said. "Is he with them?"

"Perhaps," Snape answered. "If Tanzar has half a mind, he will have sought the protection of the Dark Lord in return for servitude. After all, he is a coward … And the reputation of the Hunter is growing as we speak."

"What?" Killian asked, perplexed by Snape's cryptic comment.

"By my count, your little _triad_ just slew thirteen Death Eaters," Snape answered with a sweeping gesture towards the bodies strewn about the clearing. "I, myself, barely escaped with my life."

With that, Snape turned to walk off.

"Wait," Killian called after him.

Snape cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Remember your lessons ... You are the most gifted student I have ever instructed. You will not fail me."

A second later, Snape Disapparated, leaving Killian alone with Altimus and Wraith, both of whom stood in silence. Minutes passed before Killian turned to address his new allies. Having no idea what to say, he turned away and began to walk back towards Hogwarts.

With Altimus and Wraith following closely behind, it was not long before the ghostly image of the castle came back into view. For the second time that night, Killian stopped and took in the vision.

"Well, where to, brother?" Altimus asked cautiously. "I imagine it probably isn't a good idea to just storm into Hogwarts tonight."

"The boathouse should be safe," Killian answered with his eyes fixed upon a particular window in the girl's dormitory of Gryffindor tower.

"Your flower," Wraith asked, noticing the focus of Killian's gaze. "Is she in there?"

"I don't know," Killian answered honestly.

"To the boathouse, then?" Altimus offered. "Get ourselves organized. If Snape's right, we may have a long night ahead of us."

"Right," Killian agreed with a heavy sigh.

Altimus and Wraith headed off, but Killian hesitated for a moment. After a few paces, they stopped and turned back toward Killian.

"Something wrong, brother?" Altimus asked.

"Wraith," Killian answered as he looked upon the delicate young witch with crystal blue eyes. "What is your name?"

"Wraith," she answered without hesitation.

"Your _real_ name," Killian followed.

The young sorceress stared at Killian for a moment, her eyes narrowing, her jaw clenched.

"Angelina," she finally answered. "Angelina Passer."

"The Passer Family?" Killian asked, recognizing both the name and the story surrounding it. "They were—"

"Murdered during the Dracosenim Wars," Wraith concluded, her voice as cold as ice.

"As were you," Killian asked. "Or so I had heard. Clearly you survived."

"Physically," Wraith answered. "But I am dead ... There is nothing left but vengeance."

"We are very much the same, you and I," Killian extended.

"Yes," Wraith agreed. "And that is why I will fight with you."

"So be it," Killian accepted.

With that, the newly formed Triad made their way across the Hogwarts grounds and onward towards the boathouse. He would never admit it, but Killian actually welcomed the company. He had been alone for so long he had forgotten what it felt like. In this world, everyone needed allies. Killian was no different. He knew that now.

"You know," Altimus whispered to Wraith, "I been traveling with you for over a year now. We literally came through together. And you've never once told me your real name."

"You never asked," Wraith explained simply.

"Did so," Altimus argued. "Dozens of times."

"Not properly," Wraith clarified.

"Not even sure what that's supposed to mean," Altimus went on with a hearty laugh. "Good to know it now though, eh, Angelina?"

"If you ever call me Angelina again, I will slit your throat while you sleep," Wraith threatened calmly.

"Right ... Gotcha," Altimus conceded, pointing definitively to his temple with an uncomfortable smile. "Making a mental note of that right now."

Killian remained silent, content with listening to the banter between Altimus and Wraith as they walked along. Life was complicated and it was not going to get better any time soon. The Dark Lord was on his way to Hogwarts. The next morning may never come. At least he now knew he would not have to face the night alone.


	16. Chapter 16 - Broken Charms

_Finally, we have come to the Battle of Hogwarts. Two paths twisting away before inevitably finding their way back to the beginning. Also of note, this is the third post in less than a week. Also, also of note,_ _some of the dialogue was taken directly from J K Rowling's The Deathly Hallows. Also, also, also of note, for those inspired by music, this chapter—specifically toward the end—goes well with Evanescence's "Bring Me to Life." Also, also, also, also of note ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Sixteen -_

 _Broken Charms_

No rest for the weary. Killian, Altimus, and Wraith had barely reached the boathouse when the attack began. There would be no time to regroup, to strategize. Perhaps it was better that way. Less time to think, act upon instinct alone.

"Where is Tanzar?" Killian asked of a young Death Eater whom Wraith had disarmed and pinned to the outer wall of the castle's lakeside tower.

"I d-don't know," the Death Eater stammered as blood trickled from his mouth, a direct result of the thorough pummeling Wraith had laid upon him.

"Is he here?" Killian pressed on, his glare burning. "Is he at Hogwarts?"

"I don't know," the Death Eater repeated.

Killian turned away in, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"What ya want to do with him?" Altimus asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Do what you will," the Death Eater cursed defiantly. "The Dark Lord will destroy you all!"

A sudden thought crossed Killian. He turned back to the Death Eater, his staff drawn.

"Where is _Voldemort_?" he asked.

"You _dare_ speak his name?" the Death Eater hissed.

"I spit upon it," Killian retorted as a stream of white light jettisoned from his staff and pressed against the Death Eater's chest. "Now, I will ask you again," he went on as the muffled sounds of bones being ground and crushed bore through the agonized moans that the Death Eater attempted to stifle. "Where … is … Voldemort?"

. . .

Inside Hogwarts, Hermione was trying to keep herself together. They had found the diadem and destroyed the Horcrux. In the process, Crabbe had been killed, a victim of his own curse gone awry. And Fred … Fred was gone, crushed under the rubble when the hall was obliterated during the overwhelming attack on the castle. Percy and Ron were beside themselves, and Hermione felt helpless against their mourning.

Ron … How could she even begin to understand what had happened with Ron? She had kissed him. Why did she do it? Even now, as she attempted to restrain Ron from chasing after Rookwood in a blind rage for what had happened to Fred, she could not rationalize the action. It had all happened so fast.

She had kissed him. She had wanted to for so long. She had been longing for him … Missing him … Missing _Ron_.

He was her stranger, was he not? What he had said … He had to be. It was the only logical explanation.

" _No, I mean we should tell them to get out … We don't want any more Dobbies, do we? … We can't order them to die for us …"_

That moment, Ron's words … They flittered through Hermione's mind, repeating in succession. Eerily similar to the words spoken by her stranger as he teased her about her buttons and pamphlets. Not exact, but so close that it could not be coincidence.

For so long she had tried to deny it, to come up with any other explanation. But she was wrong. Her stranger … He was Ron all along, visually warped and twisted into a vision of an individual who never existed. It was nothing more than her mind struggling as it came to terms with something her heart had failed to realize.

But if this was true, why did it feel so wrong? Why did she feel as though she was betraying … What exactly did she feel? She loved Ron. All of these emotions that had been welling up inside her this past year … They were for him. They _had_ to be. There was no other way to make sense of it. So why did she now feel so empty inside?

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he?" she finally suggested to Harry, attempting to rid her mind of thoughts that would be distracting to the task at hand. "Do it Harry—look inside him!"

Harry closed his eyes and Hermione could immediately see he was making a connection with the Dark Lord. As the moments passed, however, she could not seem to shake the sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach. It felt wrong. Everything felt so very wrong.

. . .

Killian, Wraith, and Altimus made their way through the winding underground passage that led from the grounds of Hogwarts towards the Shrieking Shack. There, they waited in the shadows, listening to the banter taking place in the decrepit remains of the study.

"This is bloody suicide," Altimus whispered. "That's what this is."

"You could have waited by the Whomping Willow," Wraith offered tersely.

Killian raised his hand to silence them as he concentrated on the conversation in the study.

"Go and fetch Snape."

"Snape, m-my Lord?"

"Snape. Now. I need him. There is a—service—I require from him. Go."

As Lucius left the room, Voldemort stood there, staring at the wand in his hand.

"It is the only way, Nagini," he whispered.

Quiet as they might have been, Lucius was immediately aware of their presence, stopping dead in his tracks, his eyes wide and concerned.

"In the name of—" he choked in a guarded whisper. "What are you doing here? You must leave this place immediately!"

"I've come to speak with Voldemort," Killian stated firmly.

Lucius trembled at the sound of the Dark Lord's name, albeit amidst a valiant attempt to hide it. It was not often he heard the name spoken at all, but far less often was it spoken with such disdain. Killian could see Lucius was worn and pallid, his usually pristine hair now wiry and unkempt. It was clear he was worried for his son ... For Draco. Everything in his world was falling apart.

"Please," Lucius pleaded with Killian. "Please, let me take you from here. There is still time—"

"I see we have visitors," came Voldemort's voice from the threshold of the study. "Bella, my dear, do escort them in."

Bellatrix emerged from the shadows behind the group and exchanged a harsh glance with Lucius. He sighed heavily before straightening up in an attempt to look as proper as his current condition would allow. He then laid his hand upon Killian's shoulder, and they all made their way into the study.

"If we all get killed here, I'm going to be a bit put out," Altimus whispered.

"Silence!" Bellatrix snapped, shoving Wraith along into the study.

"Do _not_ place your hands on me!" Wraith threatened as she spun around and drew her bow upon Bellatrix.

Bellatrix raised her wand to the ready and was about to strike before Killian stepped between the two, pushing Wraith's bow down and eyeing her closely.

"Not here, Wraith," he said.

Bellatrix laughed in amusement. "Yes, yes," the maniacal witch mused as Wraith reluctantly stood down. "Wouldn't want to bloody up the upholsteries with your pretty little self, now would we?"

"That is quite enough, Bella," Voldemort said as he eyed the trio of young wizards that stood before him. "Lucius," he went on. "You appear to be familiar with them. What do you say to an introduction?"

"Of c-course, my Lord," Lucius stammered. "This is Killian. Killian Finn. I'm afraid I am not acquainted with his colleagues, however."

"Colleagues?" Voldemort mused with a grin. "Ah, Lucius … Always the aristocrat. So," he went on, "unnamed colleagues, what do you go by?

"Altimus Marconius … The, uh … The seventh," Altimus offered meekly as Wraith narrowed her eyes at him in disapproval. "What?" he defended. "The man asked."

"Altimus," Voldemort echoed. "And what of your name, my dear?"

"My name is not important," Wraith seethed.

Voldemort leaned in, eyeing the young witch with a menacing glare. "It is _important_ to me."

"Her name is Wraith," Killian interjected.

"Wraith is _not_ a name!" Voldemort roared with impatience.

"It is the only name you're being offered," Killian shot back, hoping that his growing fear would not show through as he continued to hold his defiant stance.

Voldemort seemed amused at the scene as it was playing out. He strode back and forth in front of the trio, looking them up and down several times before placing himself at a distance.

"Killian Finn," he hissed as he turned to address the arrogant Slytherin. "I have heard much of your exploits. The _Hunter_ , are you not? I have lost several very valuable servants by your hand … This very evening, as I have recently been informed."

Killian glared. "I only have one life left to take."

"Yes, I am aware," Voldemort said as he ran his fingers across his glistening, pale scalp. "Tanzar, am I correct? And I suppose you have come here to claim him, have you?"

"Is he here?" Killian asked boldly.

Voldemort grinned dismissively. "I am afraid I cannot answer that."

"Cannot or will not?" Killian challenged through gritted teeth.

"Such anger ..." Voldemort grinned even broader "... Such _rage_."

"I want Tanzar," Killian went on. "And you are _going_ to give him to me!"

"Or what, exactly?" Voldemort snapped. "Bella," he went on, gesturing to Bellatrix with a wave of his hand. "You have dueled with this one, have you not?"

Bellatrix sauntered across the study towards Voldemort. "I have."

"And how would you rate his performance?" Voldemort asked on.

"Moderately passable," Bellatrix answered, licking her upper lip and winking at Killian.

"That is quite a compliment, I can assure you," Voldemort offered to Killian. "Tell me," he went on. "A boy of your skills, your potential … Why is it that we are at odds? Would we not make better allies than enemies? You have clearly proven yourself—"

"My Lord," Lucius cut in.

"Hold your tongue, Lucius!" Voldemort hissed. "He is not your son, nor any concern of yours!"

Lucius bit down with restraint, glancing back and forth between Killian and the Dark Lord. Killian could see the stress eating away at him. He felt pity for his long-time protector, but could not let that affect his intentions. After an awkward moment's silence, Voldemort sighed and returned his focus upon Killian.

"Join me," Voldemort offered. "Stand by my side. I will give you Tanzar. All that I ask in return is that you give me your _obedience_. Imagine the possibilities … We could accomplish such _wondrous_ things."

"I stand where I belong," Killian assured defiantly. "Between you and Hogwarts. Now, give … me … _Tanzar_!"

Voldemort stood with rage, fire burning in his glare. "How dare you speak to me with such _insolence_!"

Killian felt his knees begging to tremble. It took everything he could muster to bury his fears and remain steadfast. Altimus was not as skilled at this ruse. Killian could see his hand shaking at his side. Wraith, on the other hand, was stone-faced; defiant and glaring. Killian drew his strength from her.

"I offer you everything!" Voldemort went on. "And you throw it away, making demands to suit your own pathetic agenda! With a flick of my wand, I could take your head and drink the blood from your eyes! The most powerful wizards of our age tremble and retreat in fear at the mere mention of my name! Do you really believe that you have the power to make demands of me?"

Killian grinned arrogantly. "I believe I just did."

It was too far. In the instant the words escaped his lips, Killian knew he had gone too far. Overconfidence had suddenly overtaken his fears. Foolish.

He did not hear the curse that was cast. He saw nothing but the flash of blinding light. Not green. Not the Killing Curse. He heard Altimus' voice but could not make out the words. From the corner of his vision, he saw Wraith's eyes widen with fear of the likes he had never before witnessed. Before the searing energies completely blurred Killian's sight, he saw Bellatrix and Lucius, polar opposites in their expressions of maniacal glee and wrenching concern.

When the light faded, Killian stood before Voldemort, his shielding spell still intact, his right leg shaking out of fear or adrenaline; he could not distinguish between the two. Voldemort lowered his wand, his head cocked slightly to the side. Had he deflected the Dark Lord's curse? Had his shield absorbed it? Impossible. As arrogant as he was, Killian knew he could not possibly have stood to Voldemort. Was it a test? He should be dead. They all should be dead. Yet there they stood … Wraith's glare returning, Altimus heaving and clutching at his chest, and Killian with his staff at the ready, unsure what next to expect.

Voldemort, too, seemed surprised, although he hid it well behind his air of confidence. He stood there for a moment, a look of contemplation, of intrigue, burned into his serpentine expression. The Dark Lord was certainly impressed, if not stunned, that there were not three corpses lying before him. In that fraction of a second, Killian's fear had faded.

"Tanzar will be on the battlefield," Voldemort finally offered in a disinterested, nonchalant tone. "Whether you encounter him or not … That is not my concern."

"My Lord," Bellatrix gasped. "You can't just let them—"

"Do not pretend to inform me of what I can and cannot do!" Voldemort interrupted curtly. "Tanzar has hidden for long enough. I, for one, am curious to see how this will play out. Now be gone, _Hunter_ ," he dismissed with a wave of his wand, "lest my charity run out."

Altimus slowly backed out of the room. Killian, however, stood his ground for a moment, his eyes fixed upon the Dark Lord. Whatever had just happened, his gamble had worked. Now he just stood there, the previous minutes playing back in his mind. It was not until Wraith pulled at his arm that he, too, slowly backed away. His last sight was of Lucius, looking on in a mixture of buried despair and disquiet.

"Lucius," came Voldemort's voice. Lucius broke his eye contact with Killian and turned towards the Dark Lord, who was now out of view. "I believe I ordered you to fetch Snape."

. . .

"Kill the snake?" Neville asked, perplexed at the simplicity of Harry's request.

"Kill the snake," Harry repeated.

"All right, Harry," Neville agreed. "You're okay, are you?"

"I'm fine," Harry lied. "Thanks, Neville."

With that, Harry went to move past Neville and head down the corridor. As he did, however, Neville grabbed him by the arm.

"We're all going to keep fighting, Harry," he promised. "You know that?"

"Yes, I …" Harry began to reply, but choked on his words.

Neville paid no attention to Harry's bumbling response, simply patting him on the back as he released his arm before walking away to look for more of the dead that lay scattered throughout the halls of Hogwarts.

Harry watched as Neville disappeared around a corner before continuing on. He swung the Invisibility Cloak over himself and contemplated the chaos that was surrounding him. It had all come down to this. Everything he thought he had known was wrong. He was nothing more than a pawn in a game greater than himself. Snape … His nemesis for so long … No, not his nemesis, his silent protector. But like all those who protected Harry, Snape had met his death as well. Everything and everyone who touched Harry's life met their tragic end in one way or another. It was simply the way of it. And there was only one way for him to stop the cycle.

Further down the corridor, Harry came across Ginny trying to comfort a young girl who was crying for her mother. The girl wanted nothing more than to leave, to go home, to be safe. Harry could see the anguish in Ginny's eyes as she attempted to ease the girl's pain. It tore at him that he could not ease the pain that Ginny, herself, must have been feeling at the loss of her brother. With a huge effort, Harry forced himself on.

Just as the whimpers of the young girl faded in the distance, however, Harry found himself blocked off by three dark figures who lurked in the shadows.

"You're heading into the Forbidden Forest, aren't you, Potter?" Killian asked as he stepped into sight.

"How did you …" Harry started as he pulled off his cloak.

"It may make you invisible to the eye," Killian explained, "but it does not make you silent."

"Right," Harry said with a sigh. "I was just taking a walk, is all," he went on.

"Longbottom may be naïve enough to believe you," Killian persisted, "but do not take me as a fool. You're handing yourself over to them … To him."

"Would you do differently if you were in my position?" Harry asked as he glanced at the large wizard standing to Killian's left and the petite witch on his right, her crystal blue eyes mesmerizing as she looked upon him with curiosity.

"I don't know," Killian answered honestly. "I would like to think I would continue to fight."

"There is no more fight!" Harry snapped in frustration. "Everyone in this castle is going to die … They're going to die because of me! I can't let that happen!"

"So you will die for them, is that it?" Killian asked. "And you really believe that will work? You really believe once you're gone, everything will be wonderful again?"

"I …" Harry began and then stumbled over his words. "At least they'll live. They'll live to regroup. They'll live to fight another day, another way. If I can give them that … Give them a hope for tomorrow … I don't have any other choice, do I?"

Killian and Harry stood across from each other in silence for a moment, each absorbing the reality of what was happening around them. This was the end. One way or the other, this night would end in death. Killian's expression softened, almost unrecognizably so, as he extended his hand to Harry.

"I misjudged you, Potter," he admitted as Harry took his hand and shook it firmly. "I'd always had you as a moderate wizard … Lucky … Surrounded by greatness and leeching from it. I was wrong about you … About what makes you great," he went on with a heavy heart. "Great wizard or not, you are a far greater man than I could ever hope to be."

"Thanks, Finn," Harry said uncomfortably, for lack of anything else to say.

"Let me go with you," Killian offered.

"Let _us_ go with you," the petite witch piped in.

"Bloody hell," the large wizard mumbled to himself.

"No," Harry answered. "I … I can't have you do that."

"Just an escort," Killian clarified. "I promise I won't interfere. You shouldn't have to go through this alone."

"I appreciate it, Finn," Harry went on. "I really do. But I … I need to be alone right now."

"Fair enough," Killian conceded as Harry went to replace his cloak. "Neville was right, you know?" he added. "We won't stop fighting."

"I know," Harry said, forcing a weak smile. "Does Hermione know you're here?" he went on as the thought suddenly occurred to him.

"No," Killian admitted. "I …" he paused, taking a deep breath. "I haven't—"

"You should," Harry said simply. "She still doesn't know what you did."

"But you do," Killian said in an even tone.

"Took me a bit," Harry explained. "But I figured it out."

"And you didn't say anything?" Killian asked.

"Almost did," Harry admitted. "Wanted to. Just as I wanted to kill you for it. Made you a promise about that sort of thing, remember?"

Killian grinned somberly as his eyes fell to the floor. "I do."

"But I thought better of it," Harry went on. "Figured you had your reasons. Stupid things we do for the people care about, right?"

Killian did not respond. Harry could tell that he was burying his emotions. He did it well, but not well enough. Harry could see the pain in Killian's eyes. He could almost feel it.

With nothing left for them to say, Harry nodded in departure as he threw on his Invisibility Cloak before heading out into the courtyards and onward towards the Forbidden Forest.

. . .

Hermione watched in horror as Hagrid marched toward Hogwarts with Harry's limp body resting in his arms. Voldemort and his minions surrounded the gentle half-giant, pushing him along as they goaded those who had followed Professor Dumbledore, those who had protected Harry for all those years … Those who had failed.

The pain was overwhelming. She listened as Voldemort spoke of Harry being killed as he tried to escape the battle. She knew this was a lie, but the words stung nonetheless. She watched helplessly as Neville charged at the Dark Lord, only to be disarmed and made an example to the others as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head and set aflame. She wept as the entire world changed before her eyes.

Suddenly there was a great noise in the distance … An explosion. From the outer walls of Hogwarts' grounds, hundreds of wizards and witches were storming towards the castle. The ground then began to rumble as Grawp stomped around the side of the castle, calling for Hagrid, only to be intercepted by Voldemort's giants. Arrows began to pierce the air as hoof-beats grew louder and louder from the depths of the Forbidden Forest. It was not over. All was not lost. The battle had only just begun.

Amidst the commotion, Neville broke free from the Binding Spell that was cast upon him, the flaming Sorting Hat falling from his head. He reached inside and pulled out the shining sword of Gryffindor, just as Harry had done several years before. In a swift stroke, Neville took the head of Nagini. And with that action, the final Horcrux had been destroyed.

Voldemort roared in rage but was unable to retaliate against Neville, instead finding himself, along with wizards and Death Eaters alike, being forced back into the castle as Thestrals rained down from the skies and house-elves, led by none other than Kreacher himself, joined in the fray. As Hermione fought her way through the growing mass, she heard Hagrid's voice bellowing across the courtyard …

"HARRY! … HARRY! … WHERE'S HARRY!"

Hermione could not begin to know what that meant and currently was not in a position to pursue the matter. Separated from Ron, she danced her way through the bedlam surrounding her and reached the staircase that wound up from the foyer. There, she was assaulted by a series of jinxes from an unknown assailant. Deflecting them away, she held her wand to the ready as her attacker approached and removed his Death Eater's mask.

"Hello, Hermione," Adrian Pucey spat in disgust as he advanced. "Where's your buddy Finn?"

"Who?" Hermione asked in stunned bewilderment as a sudden fog enveloped her consciousness.

Pucey leapt at her, pressing her to the wall and clutching her throat. A moment later, he was blasted off his feet, careening down the staircase and landing awkwardly at its base. Hermione turned towards the source of the cast and saw a young wizard in a long tattered coat crouched and balanced in the shadows on the stone railing a floor above, brandishing a short staff at the ready. As the figure leapt from the railing, two other wizards, one armed with an enchanted bow, made their way into the battle below.

The wizard in the long coat, however, raced towards Hermione, placing his hands on her shoulders, bracing her as her legs became weak and unstable.

"Hermione ..."

Her name upon his lips caused Hermione to shiver. Her eyes danced across the features of his face as she struggled to free herself from his grip. Then, like pressing through a fog and finding clarity, she finally saw him.

" _You_? …" she said, her voice a trembling whisper as she questioned her own senses and doubted their answers.

Grasping through a mental darkness for something that fluttered just beyond her reach, Hermione caught the glint of a small silver ring on a chain dangling from the boy's neck … Not just a ring … A _mark_ …

" _And how do I mark you then …"_

Relinquishing herself to his embrace, Hermione looked into the boy's piercing green eyes and, for a moment, the world fell away. In the next instance, however, it felt as though her body had gone into shock, gasping for air. She started to tremble as voices and images began to swirl in her mind as her body fell into her stranger's arms. Slowly, he eased her to the ground, guiding her to an outcropping along the stairs out of harm's way.

"Stay here," he said softly as he glanced back towards Pucey, who had regained his composure and was now making his way back up the staircase. "You'll be safe."

He held Hermione's hand firmly for a moment … an impossibly familiar touch … before taking off to engage the approaching adversary.

Hermione could no longer control her senses. Hundreds of voices were screaming at her all at once, echoing amongst themselves. Images came in and out of focus … Thoughts … Memories. Nothing made any sense. She watched from the alcove as her stranger, a fiction who had stepped out of her dreams, battled Pucey with a skill, a form … a passion …

" _You're a Slytherin?"_

" _And you're a Gryffindor … I guess there are no more secrets between us now."_

A staircase … Music … An infuriating grin …

" _I don't know if you're trying to be clever or insulting."_

" _I'm trying to dance … How am I doing?"_

" _Moderate."_

" _Better than I expected then."_

The smell of his skin … His breath on her neck … Outside on the grounds … Walking through the trees ...

" _You're still a jerk, you know."_

" _I'm quite aware … You remind me regularly."_

A rain-soaked bird … No, a flower … An embrace …

" _I thought you were angry … that you hated …"_

" _Every moment that went by … every excruciating second … my life is as death without you."_

More and more images came in and out of focus. Hermione's head was splitting with searing pain. A garden … A library … A mansion … Dementors … Pain … She could almost feel it, almost touch it. The blurs were slowly becoming clear. Death Eaters … The dungeons … Fighting their way to the Astronomy Tower … Who was it? Fire … Death … Rage …

" _This is insanity …"_

" _You know nothing of insanity!"_

The sense of loss was becoming overwhelming … Hermione's emotions were tearing away at her … Desperation …

" _You don't get to do this! … You don't get to die! … You were my constant! … I can't lose you …"_

His name! What was his _damn_ name!

The agonizing pain refused to relinquish its hold upon Hermione. She attempted to regain her balance, forcing herself to her feet, searching the base of the stairs just as Pucey fell in combat. The wizard in the long coat had not faltered; his focus now turned upon a gruff and menacing Death Eater. As they dueled, the Death Eater retreated in haste, his opponent close on his heels.

She watched for a moment longer, her hand pressed to her forehead. Her eyes locked on the wizard who had come from the shadows … She could feel the embrace … The warmth, the smell, the taste … A hand brushing past her cheek as she slept … A whisper …

" _I love you, Hermione Granger … Always."_

In an instant the pain was gone. Hermione's eyes widened with sudden clarity.

"Killian!" she cried out as she raced down the stairs and gave chase.


	17. Chapter 17 - The Fate of Destiny

_Alas, here we are. We have finally reached the end. In all honesty, I could have posted this a few days ago, but I wanted to make certain it was all in order as there is a LOT going on here. It probably could have been broken into two chapters, but I did not wish to interrupt the flow. Which I am actually doing right now, so without further adieu ... Enjoy!_

 _Oh yeah, a portion of the dialogue was taken directly from the works of J K Rowling's The Deathly Hallows. Not mine, I just borrowed it. Okay, no more digressions ... Enjoy!_

 _\- Chapter Seventeen-_

 _The Fate of Destiny_

Killian, Altimus and Wraith watched from a balcony high upon Hogwarts' castle walls. Having made their way to the secluded area after the initial attack reached its interlude, the trio now waited with impatience as the survivors regrouped and organized their losses. Killian knew it was coming. He knew from the moment he and Harry parted ways. He knew …

"Killian …" came an unwelcomed voice from behind.

"What are you doing here?" Killian asked, refusing to even turn as he addressed the individuals whom had appeared from the darkness.

"Our duty."

Liam Buckley and Aeris Baethen calmly stepped into the light, with Liam holding his bowler cap in his deep purple gloved hand and tapping it gently against his walking stick as he walked along.

"Of course," Killian said. "Watchers ever watching, never getting involved."

"When the time necessitates action," Liam corrected, "we do as we must."

"When the time necessitates?" Killian shouted, spinning on the Watchers with glaring eyes. "Are you not seeing this?"

"This is not our fight?" Aeris explained.

"Then what is?" Killian asked as his emotions began to rise. "What is the point to it? What is the point to any of it?"

Neither Liam nor Aeris answered, creating an uneasy silence in the air before Altimus spoke up.

"Liam," he greeted. "Aeris."

"Hello Altimus," Aeris greeted in return. "We had heard you and Wraith had gone rogue. Imagine our surprise in finding you both here."

"Got tired of watching, I guess," Altimus said with a coy smirk.

"So it seems," Aeris returned with an oddly accepting smile; an offering that was not reciprocated by Wraith.

"How is the little one," Altimus asked. "Keeping you up nights?"

"He is quite well, thank you," Aeris answered with a warm, yet stoic tone. "But yes … Often."

"Well, you look like you've recovered well," Altimus offered. "Figure and all."

"Altimus!" Wraith chastised immediately.

"What?" Altimus asked, seemingly dumbfounded. "It was a compliment. Is that not a compliment?" he bumbled on, looking around for some form of advocacy. "Was meant to be."

After a suitable passage of time to allow Altimus a maximum lack of comfortability, Liam cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"If we are quite finished with the pleasantries, I believe—" he began, but Killian would have none of it.

"Why are you here?" Killian reiterated tersely.

After taking a breath and adjusting his round wired glasses, Liam's expression looked almost sympathetic. "We've come to take you home," he answered. "All of you," he added with a gesture towards Altimus and Wraith.

"You cannot be serious," Killian said, finding it almost darkly humorous Liam would even suggest such a thing.

"Killian, you belong to a family of the Twenty-eight," Liam argued. "You have a responsibility to—"

"My family is dead!" Killian argued in return. "And the man responsible for it is out there! I have but one responsibility, and I will see it through."

"Or die trying?" Aeris offered.

"Would you do any different were it Liam who lay slaughtered by Tanzar's hand?" Killian asked with fiery undertones. "Or Aeris?" he asked of Liam. "Or your children? Tell me you would not hunt him down until your last breath. Tell me that … And I will call you a liar."

Liam went to respond, but was silenced when Aeris gently raised her hand to him.

"It's time to go," she said simply.

"Surely, you're not saying—" Liam attempted to reason.

"Liam," Aeris insisted, now with a raised eyebrow. "It is time to go."

"So it appears," Liam agreed, reluctantly relenting his position. "You are starting to sound uncomfortably similar to Phineas. Far too much admiration for rebellious behavior."

"Be that as it may," Aeris said. "This is his choice, not ours."

"In the end, yes," Liam agreed, with almost as much reluctance as before. "The offer still stands for the two of you," he added with a nod to Wraith and Altimus. "Arrangements can be made."

"I stand with Killian," Wraith asserted without hesitation.

"Yeah, and me and Wraith here got a pact," Altimus added.

"We do not have a pact," Wraith corrected.

"Well, not so much a pact as an agreement of a sort," Altimus clarified.

"We do not have an agreement," Wraith corrected further.

"Okay, yeah," Altimus conceded. "But we've been traveling together for a while now, haven't we?"

"We have," Wraith finally conceded.

"There you are … So, I'll be staying too then, I guess is … uh … where I was going with that," Altimus informed Liam and Aeris.

"If that is your decision," Liam said, now inspecting his bowler cap before placing it atop his head at a slight angle. "I mean, that is what we are doing now, am I right?" he asked of Aeris. "Everyone is simply making their own choices? Rules and laws be damned?"

Aeris simply smiled. Then, with a nod of departure, Aeris and Liam began back towards the shadows from whence they came. Pausing for a moment, Liam turned back and addressed Killian directly.

"Regardless of my personal beliefs regarding all of this," he said with a vicarious gesture to their surroundings, "I do hope this night finds you victorious. What happened to your family … It was wrong. And as such, it needs to be corrected. However, your actions have had grave consequences. You are marked, as I am certain you must already know. If you choose this path, we cannot protect you."

Again, there was silence. It was a silence that offered an answer no words could have conveyed any clearer. And with it, Liam and Aeris vanished in a wisp of mist amidst the darkness leaving Killian, Wraith, and Altimus starring into the vacant space the pair of Watchers had only just occupied.

Before any of them had an opportunity to properly absorb the moment, however, a booming sound emanated from Hogwarts's grounds.

"Is it time already?" Altimus asked as the trio looked over the balcony.

Far down below, the area began to fill with individuals garbed in black like a swarm of locust encroaching upon a lush open field, ready to reap upon it a devastation of mortal proportions. Amidst the sea of Death Eaters, Snatchers, and other such Dark wizards of varying sorts, Hagrid trudged along, carrying with him the moment of reality Killian knew to be inevitable. Even so, now that it had occurred, he struggled to accept it.

"Pathetic," Wraith cursed under her breath as they looked down upon the masses marching triumphantly towards the courtyard.

Altimus had no words to offer. Although standing defiantly before the Dark Lord was not something he had particularly wished for, another ruckus with a pack of Death Eaters was a fight he had looked forward to with eager anticipation.

Killian simply stared on, eyeing the lifeless body Hagrid had cradled within his arms. That was the moment. He needed to see it. It would not be real until he saw it with his own eyes. Harry was gone. It was over.

For several minutes, Killian was silent, lost in thought as he watched the scene unfold below. Voldemort was giving a magnificent speech about the new world of wizardry that was being bestowed upon the grateful masses. The words, however, failed to reach Killian's ears. His focus was elsewhere. His focus was on the body that lay still in the cold grass. Surrounded by enemies … _Potter_ … Surrounded by those who wished him dead … By those who, after years of failures, finally saw their wish fulfilled.

Adding to the insult, Killian saw a familiar face standing mere inches away from Harry's body. Smiling, gloating, and enveloped in the crowd of Death Eaters who felt far too proud of themselves at the moment … _Tanzar_.

As Voldemort had promised, Killian's prey was on the battlefield. But it was a battlefield no longer. There would be no vengeance this night. Upon everything else that had happened, this tore at Killian with a frustration that knew no equal. Harry had fallen and Tanzar still lived. The world had turned upside down.

Disgusted by the sight, Killian turned away from the edge of the balcony just as Voldemort set the sorting hat aflame atop Neville's head. Seconds later the ground began to rumble. Whirling back and scanning the area, Killian saw a small giant, if that even made sense, turn the corner of the castle and charge at the horde of Dark wizards. The oddity was met head on by Voldemort's giants, and chaos began to reign free.

In the distance, hundreds of wizards and witches appeared from nowhere as arrows poured from the sky, scattering the bewildered Death Eaters. Centaurs, thermals, giants … A new battle was ensuing.

"He lives!" Wraith exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the patch of grass where Harry had lain.

As Killian looked on, a devilish grin appearing on his face. "Potter ..." he said to himself. "... Bloody brilliant."

"So it's on, then?" Altimus asked with vigor as he flexed and stretched out his arms.

Wraith drew her bow to the ready. "Damn right, it's on."

The three made their way inside Hogwarts and toward the stairs leading to the foyer. As soon as they entered the castle, they saw that the battle had already spilled inside. Killian climbed up upon the banister to see what was taking place beneath them. From there, he saw Adrian Pucey on the stairs a floor below with his hand around her throat ...

With a reaction that required no forethought, Killian blasted Pucey with an explosive curse, sending him careening to the foyer floor. He then raced down the stairs as Wraith and Altimus went on to join in the fray below.

Her name escaped his lips as he braced her by the shoulders while Hermione struggled against his grip, looking upon him with an odd mixture of fear and curiosity.

" _You_? …" she said at last as her eyes locked with Killian's.

Her eyes … Her _beautiful_ eyes. It had been so long, he had nearly forgotten. Just as Killian's emotions were ready to overtake his consciousness, he saw that Pucey had recovered and was making his way back up the stairs. In the same instant, Hermione went limp in his arms. Carefully, he moved her into the window alcove along the stairs.

"Stay here," Killian said softly as he ran his hand across her cheek. "You'll be safe."

Every ounce of him begged to stay with her, to take her and flee. But he knew such a course was not an option. With a deep breath, he laid his eyes upon his flower one last time before turning away and advancing on Pucey.

"Welcome back, Finn," Pucey chided as the two of them squared off. "You'll not catch me off guard again. I've been waiting for this."

"I have grown far beyond you, Pucey," Killian warned.

"We'll see how good you are," Pucey fired back as he drew his wand on former housemate.

Killian waved off Pucey's first attack and countered with a Stun Jinx. Although Pucey was able to raise a Shielding Charm, the force of the attack succeeded in knocking him down the stairs once again, crashing into the foyer's unforgiving stone floor.

" _Aguamenti_!" Pucey cast as he sprang to his feet, causing a jet of water to erupt towards Killian with striking velocity.

Killian raised his staff and a torrent of wind arose, redirecting the water and saturating Pucey, who slipped and fell to the floor.

" _Firmus glacies_!" Killian commanded. The water began to freeze until Pucey was entombed in a solid block of ice. " _Confringo_!" Killian followed up, obliterating the ice and forcing Pucey into the wall beyond, his face lacerated and bleeding profusely from the sharpened bits of frozen water.

 _Spoken Word_ … Such form actually offered an advantage to the Slytherin turned Death Eater, allowing a fraction of a second to recognize and counter the attack. But Killian was not concerned with such details. As it was, he did not even need to use Spoken Word for against Pucey, he _wanted_ to use it. He wanted Pucey to know exactly what was coming, daring him to stop it. Daring him, and watching him fail.

The look of angered arrogance that Pucey had carried only moments before was now gone. In its place was a defeated expression of weakness as he slumped to the ground with his back pressed firmly to the wall. He raised his wand and fired off a weak attack as Killian closed in upon him, but Killian waved it off with no more effort than pushing smoke through the air.

"You really think you're going to survive this, Finn?" Pucey asked with as much disdain as he could summon. "You're going to die! All of you!"

Killian continued to advance with his staff drawn upon Pucey.

"So, what now?" the broken former student went on, smirking as a trickle of blood now escaped his lips. "Are you going to kill me? Is that it?"

"You were dead the moment you placed your hands upon her," Killian assured with a cold and emotionless calm.

With those words, Pucey was thrust straight up into the air, his zenith nearly reaching the foyer's vaulted ceiling before he went into a free fall, smashing into the stone floor with a bone crushing impact. Killian stood over his victim for a moment as his anger swelled within him. In the next instant, he was blasted from his feet by an impact on the wall that missed him by mere inches.

Immediately regaining his composure, Killian leapt to his feet and whirled around to face the adversary who had just blind-sided him.

"Coward!" he shouted as he saw Tanzar standing across the foyer with his wand drawn to the ready.

"Hello, _Hunter_ ," Tanzar greeted with an arrogant sneer. "Looking for someone?" He then turned and fled down a corridor leading away from the foyer.

Killian immediately gave chase, but was cut off by several Death Eaters. Before Killian could engage this new threat, Altimus blasted his way into the battle.

"Go on, brother!" he assured. "We've got this!"

Killian hesitated a moment as one of the Death Eaters threw a curse that missed Altimus by a hair. As he went to aid Altimus, Wraith leapt into the duel, firing explosive curses from her bow with deadly precision.

"Go!" she shouted to Killian.

Burying his burning desire to join his allies, Killian conceded and took off down the corridor. Amidst the deafening noise of the battle that raged within the castle, he thought he heard his name being cried out, but dismissed it. Tanzar … All he could see was _Tanzar_.

. . .

No! She could not let him get away! She had to catch him!

Hermione raced down the stairs and pursued Killian along the corridor that snaked away from the foyer. As she went on, she was met head on by several Death Eaters … Former students … She recognized them. It mattered not, as Hermione dispatched them with relative ease. Passion and control … It was all coming back.

Frustrated with the delay, she ran on, searching for signs of Killian and Tanzar. It was nearly impossible to identify anyone amidst the fracas. But he had to be there. He had to be somewhere. It could not be too late.

. . .

Further up the corridor, Tanzar reached a dead end. Having cornered his prey, Killian squared up as Tanzar looked around in vain for another avenue of retreat.

"There's nowhere to go from here," Killian said. "No place to hide."

"Hide?" Tanzar scoffed as he and Killian began to circle one another. "Do you really believe I was running from you? How disappointing. I would have thought you'd learned better by now. Always be aware of your environment. Didn't your _mentor_ teach you that?"

Killian then realized that in circling, he was now the one pinned in the dead end of the corridor. Unfortunately, the realization came too late as Tanzar reared back and fired a powerful curse that Killian's Defensive Shield could barely absorb, tossing him into the wall alongside the large stained glass window that decorated the corridor.

"You brought this on yourself, boy," Tanzar goaded. "I had nothing more than a simple request. But you … You had to take it all for yourself, didn't you?" Killian rolled to his stomach and weakly attempted to push himself up, only to be hit with another explosive curse. "Arrogant, cocky little whelp," Tanzar went on. "Born and bred under the protection of wealth and political favor. My family had a name too! My grandfather was a great sorcerer!"

"We all come from somewhere," Killian said, painfully forcing himself to his feet. "Some are born, some are made ... Pity ... Are you not proud of your creation?" he added with his arms out in display.

Tanzar unleashed upon Killian once again. Weakened, Killian was able to stave off the attack only momentarily before being thrust into the wall once again, pressed with a crushing force that pulled him from the ground and restricted his breathing.

"My family's name will rise again," Tanzar promised as he moved in upon Killian. "Which is more than I can say for yours," he added, eyeing Killian with a burning glare. "Your name will be wiped from history after this night. And you … You wish to speak of pity? The pity is that this all could have been avoided. They could all still be here. Your parents, your sister … Their blood is on your hands!"

Tanzar's words struck a nerve in Killian. A sudden surge of energy flowed within him as he willed himself to fight off his asphyxiation.

" _Lumos caecus_!" he choked.

The silver orb on his staff radiated with scintillating illumination. Tanzar immediately relinquished his curse, falling back and covering his eyes from the searing light as Killian fell to the floor, gasping for air. Within seconds, Tanzar recovered and returned his focus upon Killian.

" _Orbis incendia_!" he shouted, firing several spheres of flame from his wand.

Killian rolled away just as the fired crashed against the stone wall with the explosive power of the Hades' fires.

"You can dance all you like," Tanzar taunted. "There's nowhere to run!"

"I do not run ..." Killian asserted with sudden confidence as he made it to his feet and squared up to Tanzar. " _Ferrum extertus_!"

Several of the iron candle rods along the corridor were wrenched from the walls and projected toward Tanzar.

The brood master's eyes widened, but he easily raised his defenses and deflected the attack. However, in the same instant, Killian had made his way around his adversary, effectively reversing their positioning. Now Tanzar, once again, found himself blocked in.

" _Sanusundo_!" Killian followed up before Tanzar could regain his bearings.

A sonic wave of deafening bass rippled away from Killian, crashing into Tanzar and thrusting him through the crumbling stained glass window. When the wave subsided, Killian ran to the opening, looked down, and saw Tanzar flat out on the rooftop of the Great Hall, scrambling to get to his feet. Without hesitation, he leapt after him as the battle within Hogwarts spilled into the dead end, now littered with broken candle rods and shattered glass.

. . .

Hermione found herself in another melee. Nothing she could not handle. Young and inexperienced … Pathetic. As she finished off her adversary, she heard an explosive drumming sound resonate from further down the corridor. Covering her ears, she raced on to find the source. As she rounded the corner, she saw Killian just as he leapt from the window.

Her heart raced as she ran to the window, passing Ginny along the way. Upon reaching the shattered opening, she looked down and saw Killian, once again, engaged with Tanzar as the sun rose over the horizon. As she went to follow, however, she felt a hand grasp her firmly by the arm.

"Are you mad?" Ginny asked in exasperation.

"I have to go after them!" Hermione shouted as she struggled to pull away.

"After them?" Ginny tried to rationalize. "They jumped out the bloody window!"

"I have to," Hermione went on desperately. "I can't lose him again!"

"Lose who?" Ginny asked, perplexed by the impassioned declaration.

Hermione had no chance to answer. Over Ginny's shoulder, she saw Luna backing away from Bellatrix as the maniacal witch attacked with vicious onslaughts. Ginny, noticing Hermione's line of vision, spun around and, without hesitation, sprinted down the corridor to aid Luna.

Hermione then returned her focus out the window, scanning the area for Killian amidst the blinding rays of the morning sun that glistened off the dampened roof tiles. After a moment, she found him dueling Tanzar along the far end of the rooftop … And losing his footing!

"Two for one then, is it, my little pretties?" Bellatrix cackled as Ginny's help did little to even the odds.

It was a crossroad, and Hermione was caught in the middle. She knew Ginny and Luna would not last against Bellatrix. But Killian … She turned back towards the window and gasped as she lost sight of both Killian and Tanzar. They were gone! She took a single step through the damaged frame strewn with shards of shattered colored glass when she heard Luna shriek in pain as Bellatrix laid a curse upon her. Killian …

" _Reducto_!" Hermione cried, swirling around and drawing her wand on Bellatrix.

The attack met its mark, catapulting Bellatrix quite a distance down the hall as Hermione joined Luna and Ginny. Together, the three of them went after Voldemort's faithful servant, who retreated down the corridor, through the foyer, and into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall itself was an eruption of curses and jinxes bounding and rebounding in every direction. As they dueled, Hermione saw Ron and Neville take down Fenrir Greyback, Flitwick take down Dolohov, and George and Jordan take down Yaxley. Even Voldemort found himself at three to one odds against McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley. Could it be? Were they actually winning the battle?

No … Hermione could not distract herself with such optimism. Even with their combined efforts, she, Ginny, and Luna were still being outmatched by Bellatrix. After dodging an attack, Hermione's heart nearly leapt into her throat as the Dark sorceress threw a Killing Curse that missed Ginny by less than a breath.

"NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" Mrs. Weasley cried out in a rage that Hermione had never imagined possible from the gentle woman. "OUT OF MY WAY!" she went on as she pushed the three of them aside and engaged Bellatrix.

The end was near. Hermione could feel it in her very soul. Voldemort and Bellatrix were the last left standing. The end was near …

. . .

Tanzar leapt up, firing a curse that Killian deflected before his feet even touched the roof of the Great Hall. This was followed by several curses in succession, each meeting with the same effect. Killian stalked towards Tanzar with a purpose as the Dark wizard continued to retreat.

" _Accio_!" Tanzar cast beyond Killian's shoulder.

Killian turned and saw a stone gargoyle ripped from its pedestal and hurled towards him. He lunged out of the way just as the statue shattered against the rooftop, leaving a sizable impact crater.

For several minutes they parried for positioning, each countering the other with precision and skill. After a misstep, Killian slipped and nearly lost his footing as he teetered along the edge of the roof. It was the momentary distraction that Tanzar had been waiting for.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" he shouted as a green jet shrieked towards Killian.

The Killing Curse. Tanzar was looking to end it. Killian ducked to avoid the fatal attack. In doing so, however, he sacrificed his balance and fell from the rooftop, colliding with the outcropping alongside the windows of the Great Hall with crushing force.

The fall disoriented Killian, knocking out his wind in the process. He forced himself to his feet, just as Tanzar came down upon him.

" _Expelliarmus_!"

Killian's staff flew through the air, arcing towards Tanzar, who caught it triumphantly. Now disarmed, Killian backed up against the enormous stained glass window. He was far too tired, too worn, too weak. He had fought for too long. It had all come down to this.

"Did you really believe you could win?" Tanzar mocked as he eyed Killian's staff. "Daddy's, is it?"

Killian could hear the chatter of conversation through the window of the Great Hall, but could not make out any words.

"How naïve," Tanzar went on. "Even if you had managed to strike me down this night, you didn't really think this would be the end, did you? There have always been Dark wizards! If I fell, others would follow in my place!"

Tanzar drew his wand upon Killian, who immediately felt the pressure of the curse against his throat, lifting him from his feet, and choking the air from his lungs. From the other side of the glass, he heard a duel …

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

" _Expelliarmus_!"

After a few agonizing seconds, Killian's vision began to blur. He heard an eruption of cheers echoing in the Great Hall. Tanzar, seemingly unaware of whatever was transpiring within the walls of Hogwarts, advanced on Killian until he was right in his face.

"I want you to know," he began in a deathly tone, "that I am not through with you just yet. After I've taken your life, I will hunt down everyone you have ever known, everyone you have ever cared for, everyone you have ever loved … And I will send them to meet you!"

Tanzar's face twisted in a demonic laugh that Killian could scarcely hear through the pounding of blood in his ears. Thoughts began to pass through his mind. He was going to hunt her … He was going to kill her … _Hermione_!

" _Pain, anger, fire burning within your soul, those are the allies of your attack …"_

Snape's voice echoed through Killian's mind.

" _You must control them …"_

His mentor had trained him well ... He would not fail him.

" _Control them . . . and they will serve you!"_

Killian felt his muscles tighten, trembling with a focused energy. Just as before, when he stood before Voldemort, his fear was gone. The choking pressure around his neck released, and he fell to the floor with a heave of fresh air. Tanzar quickly reacted, attempting to reapply the curse, only to find it deflected away with a wave of Killian's hand.

"What magic is this?" Tanzar gasped in horror as Killian eyes blazed with a controlled fury.

"Mine!" Killian answered, reaching out for his staff that suddenly wrenched away from Tanzar and found its master's hand once more. " _Reducto maximus_!"

Tanzar was struck squarely, careening over the side of the rooftop before plummeting toward the courtyard below. As Killian watched, a dark shadow swooped from the early morning sky, snatching Tanzar from the air, securing him on its back, and soaring off into the distant horizon.

"No!" Killian shouted as the black dragon disappeared from sight.

He had him. He had him in his grasp … And he let him escape. Tanzar was gone.

. . .

The battle was over. Voldemort lay dead on the floor of the Great Hall. The Boy Who Lived _lived_ after all. A joy spread throughout the halls such as had not been witnessed in what seemed like an eternity. Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws alike stood together as one … United.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had just left the headmaster's office after having spoken with Dumbledore's painting and hashing out where, exactly, they would go from there on forth. Harry decided to discard the Elder Wand, to return it to Dumbledore's tomb. He had simply had enough of all the pain and suffering that had been caused on its account. It was time to put it all in the past.

"Are you coming?" Harry asked Hermione, who lagged behind as the three of them headed back towards the Great Hall.

"I'll catch up," she answered.

"Right, then," Ron pointed out. "Better hurry, or you'll miss out."

Hermione smiled and waved them off. She had no desire to return to the Great Hall. Everything she wanted was right there before her, standing in the shadows. As Harry and Ron disappeared beyond the corner, she ran to him.

"Killian!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.

"Hermione ..." Killian sighed, taking in the scent of her hair, her skin, the sound of her voice. "I don't understand ... How do you—"

"Your charm failed," Hermione explained, holding Killian as if he were falling away.

"I guess I'm not particularly skilled at them," Killian admitted.

"Why?" Hermione went on, holding him firmer still. "Why did you do it?"

Killian ran his fingers through her hair, cascading down around the soft skin behind her ear. "I didn't know what else to do ... I couldn't …"

Hermione pulled back, cutting him off as their eyes met. "I had forgotten you," she admitted as tears streamed down her face. "I had forgotten everything … I didn't mean to … I didn't know …"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Killian assured as he placed his hand on Hermione's cheek.

"But … Ron …" Hermione tried to explain.

"You have _nothing_ to apologize for," Killian repeated firmly.

Hermione pulled Killian close, kissing him, drawing him ever nearer. For a moment, everything around fell silent and the world disappeared. But then Killian withdrew, looking at Hermione as he held her in his arms, an expression of remorse and regret etched into his hollow features.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, enjoying the familiar sense of warmth and comfort within Killian's embrace.

"I'm sorry, Hermione ..." he began, the confidence in his voice giving way to staggering doubt.

"Now you're apologizing needlessly," Hermione assured with a smile. "It's over. Everything is going to be all right."

"I wish it were true," Killian admitted as he gazed into Hermione's eyes. "With all my heart, I wish it were true."

"I don't understand," Hermione said, now concerned and confused. "Voldemort is dead … We've won … There's nothing keeping us—"

"Tanzar escaped," Killian explained.

"What does it matter?" Hermione argued. "We've cut off the head of the monster. The Ministry will pick up the pieces. He'll be captured. They all will, eventually."

"Perhaps," Killian conceded. "But even if he is captured, there will be others. There will always be Dark wizards," he went on, Tanzar's words burning through his consciousness as well as Liam's ominous warning. "And … I've done things, Hermione … Terrible things."

"I don't care," Hermione promised. "Whatever you've done, I don't care."

"I have a mark on me now …," Killian explained further, his words burning in his throat with every vibration. "Everyone I know, everyone I care about … None of them will be safe so long as they're near me."

"No," Hermione protested, pounding Killian on the chest. "We can leave … We can run away," she pleaded, now clutching Killian's shirt and pressing her forehead to his. "Please, Killian … Please stay with me … I can't …"

Killian took Hermione's hands into his, fighting the emotions that were ready to burst through proverbial wall he had painstakingly built brick by brick over the last year.

"Hermione," he started as his eyes began to water. "Everything I have ever touched has been destroyed. I cannot bring you into this. I … _love_ you too much … to watch you die."

Hermione stared into Killian's eyes for a moment, looking for a sign of hope. But there was none to be found. Even as she cursed the words that fell from his lips, she knew them to be true.

"It's not fair," she wept as she drew Killian close once again, laying her head upon his chest. "This wasn't the way it was supposed to be … The way we were supposed to be."

"I'm sorry," Killian apologized, kissing Hermione on the forehead, embracing her as if she were his final breath. "I'm so sorry …"

Again their lips met. Hermione did not want to stop. She felt that if she could keep him there, holding him forever in that embrace, somehow the world would be right again … Somehow they could still … Still be.

"Master?" came a timid voice from behind.

Hermione and Killian looked down and saw Kuulic standing by Killian's side, holding the end of his tattered longcoat.

"Politeness to you," he greeted with a bow to Hermione, who almost smiled at the gesture.

"Hello, Kuulic," Hermione returned.

"Hermione," Killian whispered as Hermione turned her gaze back upon him.

Killian offered no further words, but his expression spoke volumes. In the silence that followed, a set of footsteps echoed through the hall.

"Hermione?" came Luna's voice. "Is that you?"

Hermione turned quickly as Luna approached. As she did, she felt Killian's hands slip away from hers.

"Yes," she answered as she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and straightened up.

"Are you coming?" Luna asked. "They're asking about you."

"Yes, I'll be there …" Hermione started as she turned around, her words suddenly failing her.

Killian, along with his house-elf, was gone. It felt as though Hermione's very breath had been stolen away. The tears that she had, only seconds ago, attempted to hide, now flowed uncontrollably as she leaned against the stone wall and slowly slumped down to the floor.

"Hermione!" Luna gasped as she raced to Hermione's side, throwing her arms around her. "What's the matter? Are you all right?"

"No," Hermione answered, weeping within Luna's embrace. "No, I'm not."

 _. . . . ._

 _. . . ._

 _. . ._

 _. ._

 _._

… _Four Years Later …_

It had been a long day at the Ministry, and Hermione was getting ready to pack it up to head home for the evening. Her recent promotion from the _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_ to the _Department for Magical Law Enforcement_ had put quite a lot on her plate. But, while she enjoyed working on the improvement of life for house-elves, her current work on the eradication of oppressive pure-blood laws awoke an even stronger passion within her.

As she gathered her papers and slipped them into her leather side bag, Harry popped his head into her office.

"Hey, Hermione," he said, glancing around as if looking for someone.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione returned, surprised to see him still at the Ministry after regular business hours. "You're here late this evening."

"Not on purpose, I can assure you," Harry said with a grin. "Is Ron with you?"

"No," Hermione answered. "He left hours ago. Why?"

"Just making sure." Harry paused for a moment as if contemplating how, exactly, to phrase his next thought. After biting his lip and staring at the ceiling for a moment, he redirected his attention to Hermione, who was looking upon him with piqued curiosity.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Um …" Harry began before apparently deciding to just be out with it. "He's here."

"What?" Hermione laughed at Harry's cryptic comment. "Who's here?"

" _He's_ here," Harry repeated, widening his eyes and tilting his head for emphasis. "Just saw him as I was heading out. Talking with Kingsley down by his office."

Hermione's heart thumped in her chest for a moment as a flood of emotions rolled over her. She quickly joined Harry in the doorway, and they both looked down the long corridor toward Kingsley's office.

There he was. She had not seen him since Voldemort fell, since the moment he told her …

"Are you just going to stand here?" Harry asked.

"I …" Hermione stammered. "I don't know what I'd say."

"Start with hello," Harry teased. "Build the conversation from there."

Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs as she continued to look on. So much had happened since they had last seen each other. She had become an up and coming talent within the Ministry while the Triad, as Killian and his associates had come to be called, continued on with their relentless pursuit of Dark wizards.

The Triad worked outside of the authority of the Ministry, answering to no one. However, Killian's conversation with Kingsley made it rather clear that the Ministry was well aware of the Triad's vigilante practices.

The world was better, but not perfect. As it turned out, Killian had been right about those who were close to him. Over the years, Hermione had developed an obsession with the Daily Prophet, perusing it every morning for any word of the Triad's exploits while keeping an open ear in regards to any gossip at all pertaining to the trio's growing notoriety.

Recently, she had heard of a tragic event of which the details were being safely guarded, even from someone with as much rank and privilege within the Ministry as Hermione. The little she had learned was in regards to an attack that left a great number of victims. Among the dead were a young boy and his father … Killian's nephew and brother-in-law. No doubt this was the reason Killian was at the Ministry. Looking for answers. To Hermione's knowledge, there were no leads in the case, no proof that Tanzar had any hand in the attack, but rumors spread among the few within the Ministry who knew of the event. Killian was marked. Both the hunter and the hunted.

"I'm going to say hi," Harry finally said as he walked down toward Kingsley's office, leaving Hermione in the doorway.

Still unable to move, she watched as Harry approached Kingsley, Killian, and his two companions. Altimus Marconius, the seventh… Brute strength that matched his size, moderately skilled in wizardry, but loyal to a fault. Wraith, with her crystal blue eyes and hair like spun gold … Deceptively petite and seemingly delicate, but extraordinarily powerful and dangerously impulsive.

Harry smiled and shook hands with Altimus, who laughed heartily at whatever comment Harry had made. Killian simply stood there, his hands crossed behind his back as he listened to the conversation around him.

Harry then turned back toward Hermione and waved her over. As he did, everyone turned and looked, Killian's eyes finding her instantly. Embarrassed, and cursing Harry under her breath, she quickly straightened up and walked towards the group, wringing her hands uncomfortably as she went along.

"Well, I must be off," Kingsley dismissed with a bow. "I shall be sure to send word should anything be uncovered."

Killian nodded as Kingsley turned and headed off down the hall just as Hermione joined the group.

"Hi," she offered in a tone far meeker than she had intended.

"Hello," Killian returned, his eyes remaining fixed upon Hermione in a manner that left her feeling completely exposed.

Wraith nudged Altimus in the side as she began to step away. "Time to go."

"We're going somewhere?" Altimus asked with mock surprise.

"You're an idiot," Wraith dismissed with tempered disgust.

"You see, _that_ was mean," Altimus goaded with a smirk. "It's why people don't talk to you."

"I'll walk you out," Harry offered as he, Altimus, and Wraith headed off. "Good to see you again, Finn."

"You as well, Potter," Killian returned.

A few seconds later, they were alone … Silent … Neither willing to begin. Hermione looked up at Killian. The arrogant young Slytherin with the devilish grin was gone, replaced by the hardened and emotionless figure who stood before her. But his eyes … Somewhere behind it all, his eyes still smiled at her.

"You look wonderful," he finally started.

"So do you," Hermione followed without thinking. "A bit rougher around the edges, but still … I heard about your nephew and your brother-in-law," she went on. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Killian said with little feeling.

Hermione was a bit surprised with the lack of emotion within Killian's response. She supposed that after years of being surrounded by death, perhaps he had grown immune to the pain. More likely, he was simply hiding it. He never was one to let his emotions betray him. Very Slytherin.

"Wraith is very pretty," Hermione went on, still at a loss for what to say.

"So I hear," Killian said.

"Are you two—" Hermione began.

"No," Killian answered before Hermione could finish the question.

She already knew the answer before she asked. She simply wanted to hear him say it.

"How is Ron?" Killian asked.

Of course he would ask. No dancing around it. She had actually expected it, especially after her question. Like her, she was fairly certain he already knew the answer. He just needed to hear _her_ say it.

"We're …" Hermione began, a lump rising in her throat as she nearly choked on her words. "We're getting married."

He knew. She could tell that he knew. Even so, she saw how the words stung, his jaw tensing, his eyes flinching ever so slightly.

"He is very lucky," he said at last. "He's … a good man."

"Yes," Hermione agreed reluctantly as, amidst her attempt to fight it, her eyes began to well. "He is … But he's not you, though, is he?"

"Let's hope not," Killian said with a subtle lean.

A grin? … The hint of a grin? … It was so faint, almost unnoticeable.

A hundred thoughts went through Hermione's head all at once. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many ways she wanted to say them, but none of them made their way to her lips.

"Life's funny, isn't it?" she said at last.

"Not exactly the word I would have chosen," Killian disagreed.

"No, probably not," Hermione admitted. "Look at us … Look at what we've become … What _have_ we become?"

For the first time, Killian made a movement towards Hermione, taking her hand into his and looking her directly in the eyes.

"You have become perfection," he began. "You will be a wife to a loving husband, a mother to beautiful children … And you will accomplish _extraordinary_ things."

"And what of you?" Hermione asked, losing control of her emotions as reality began to sink in. "What will _you_ become? Who will love _you_?"

Still clutching Hermione's hand, Killian looked at the floor, taking a deep, thoughtful breath. "Some paths we choose," he said before regaining eye contact. "Others are chosen for us."

For what seemed like an eternity, they looked upon each other, neither willing to relinquish the moment. Hermione saw before her the fate of their destiny. She felt broken. Even through Killian's cold exterior, she could see that she was not alone in the sentiment.

Just then, another wizard made his way past them in the hall. "Goodnight, Miss Granger," he greeted politely as he strolled along.

"Goodnight," Hermione returned, her voice cracking slightly, although she did not believe he had noticed.

"I should go," Killian said as he straightened up, Hermione's hand still within his.

 _Don't go … Stay with me … Stay with me forever_ , Hermione thought as her heart drummed in her chest. "Yes," she agreed in complete contrast to her mind's processes. "I should probably head home."

Killian looked at Hermione for a moment longer before bowing down and kissing her gently across her fingers. His lips stayed on her skin longer than what would be considered appropriate, yet somehow not long enough.

Hermione closed her eyes. She was back at Hogwarts, dancing in the dim light of a stairway with an arrogant, yet intriguing stranger. Two students with their entire lives unwritten, no idea where the world would take them, nothing but each other's embrace as they turned and swayed to the music of their own private dance. It was a memory she would carry with her forever.

"Goodbye … Hermione Granger," Killian whispered softly as he stood and slowly, almost reluctantly released Hermione's hand.

Hermione could not bring herself to say the words, fighting with all her willpower to hold in the tears she knew would burst forth the moment Killian turned away. It was then that she noticed a glimmer on his chest … A ring on a necklace that must have fallen from his shirt when he bowed to kiss her hand. A silver ring … _Her_ silver ring. After all this time, he still wore her mark upon him.

Forgoing appropriateness, Hermione threw her arms around Killian, wanting … needing to feel his embrace one last time. Although there was a moment's hesitation, Killian returned the embrace with equal fervor. She thought she could even hear a quiver as his breath softly caressed her neck.

"I will not say goodbye to you, Killian Finn," she whispered gently, her lips upon his ear. "I will _never_ say goodbye."

Killian's arms tightened around her. She could feel his pain as it melded with hers. However skilled he was at burying his emotions, this was a pain he could not hide from her. Against all desires, they released their embrace. There were no more words. Nothing more could be said; nothing more could be felt. Killian turned and slowly walked down the hall while Hermione stood there, watching him leave.

From that agonizing moment, however, came a glimmer of hope. Hermione now knew, beyond all doubt, her heart would always belong to him. And he … He would always be hers.

 _... the end ..._

 _I truly hope you enjoyed this hypothetical story of what could have happened had Hermione chosen to walk off her frustrations after the Yule Ball versus simply going to bed, thus meeting a student she would likely never have crossed paths with under any other circumstances. It was one small, simple, insignificant decision in the grand scheme of things. But how much would it change her life compared to her life within the books? How much would it have stayed the same?_

 _I will admit, another reason I took a few extra days to post this was because I absolutely loved writing this story. I knew once I posted it, I would not be writing about Hermione and Killian again. At least not during their years together at Hogwarts. What can I say? Behind the facade, I am a hopeless romantic at heart and this story has become very near and dear to me. It takes me back to a time when things were ... Well, for a brief moment, they were perfect. But, for reasons that seemed right at the time, I let it go. Mistakes and regrets ..._

 _Thank you all to those who have read this series. For those of you who were kind enough to leave a review, even more thanks. It has been a pleasure ... I am now off to dream._


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